


Lost and Found

by days4daisy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Choking, Coming Untouched, Drugs Made Them Do It, Dubious Consent, Grief/Mourning, Hair Washing, Jealousy, M/M, Magic, Magic Play, Masturbation, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Minor Character Death, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Orgy, Other, Rimming, Sort Of, Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Xeno
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-04-21 19:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14292114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: “So, great news.” The Grandmaster bends in front of Loki. “You’re lost! I mean, sure, it doesn’t seem great at first. But you’ve gotta be lost before you can be found, right?” He smiles. “You’re here with us on Sakaar now, which means you’ve been found! What do you think of that?”Loki can’t help it, he laughs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In full disclosure, this started out as an excuse for porn, lol. It's gotten a little longer and more involved than intended, so I'm posting it in parts ^_^ Hope you like!

“Odin, Thor. I bid you to.” Loki pauses, working saliva onto his tongue. “I bid you to take your place within the walls of Valhalla, where the brave shall live forever. Nor shall we mourn, but rejoice for those who have died a glorious death.”

The holding cell's walls are red. A small space, but far from the most uncomfortable jail Loki has ever inhabited. There is a bed, a small table, and a side washroom with adequate facilities. Loki digs fingers into his dirt-stained pants.

He landed in a mountain of garbage when he fell. Soldiers dressed in a bizarre menagerie of armor brought him to heel. Before Loki could demand answers, energy sliced through his body. There was something on his neck. Loki crumbled to his knees.

Blood tickled his face when he woke strapped to a chair. Around him, music swelled and images introduced him to the history of Sakaar. A creature called the Grandmaster presides over the planet. He is father to the Contest of Champions, an apparent fight to the death.

“Congratulations,” a young voice cooed, “you are now the property of the Grandmaster!” This seemed rather ominous. “You will meet the Grandmaster tonight. Prepare yourself.” Stylized images of Sakaar exploded into light and sound. Loki's chair hurtled into a prism of dying stars. “Prepare yourself,” the voice whispered.

The journey ended in the center of a battalion of pink and blue-garbed soldiers. Loki smiled at them, then vomited on the floor.

Hours have passed since then, or so Loki thinks. His head throbs, and his chest aches. Still, it's hardly the worst fall he’s taken from the bifrost - _ha_.

There has been no sign of the Grandmaster or any hint as to Loki’s fate. Must he fight in this Contest of Champions? Or will he be executed the old fashioned way? It doesn't really matter, he supposes. 

Loki bows his head. “Odin, Thor. I bid you to… I bid you to take your place within the walls of Valhalla…” Loki clears his throat. His hands are shaking. “Odin, Thor.” His heart heaves against his chest. “I bid you to take your place within the walls of Valhalla. Where the. Where the brave shall-”

Loki’s magic flares without his consent, furious as dragon’s fire. His sight washes over with green; paralyzing, invigorating.

When Loki sees again, there is a smoldering fist mark in the wall before him. Loki’s knuckles are bleeding. “You idiot,” he hisses.

Thor, of course, could not simply stay on Midgard, oh no. It was his rashness that led them to Odin's side, and to the uncaging of their vile sister.

And Odin! "Father" chose to flee instead of facing the demoness daughter he so casually cast aside. How like him, to simply die rather than face his own follies. _I love you, my sons._ Selfish, self-serving brute of an old man.

“Why?” Loki seethes. “Why say that _now_? Why not _any other time_ in the _history_ of our existence? Why, when there was _nothing_ we could do to bring you back?”

Thor - stupid, brutish Thor. If he’d only been content with his freedom and stayed away!

Loki grits his teeth. “Odin, Thor, I bid you to…” His voice wavers. “I bid you to take your place within the walls of...of Valhalla.”

Have they found Frigga yet, Loki wonders? Has Thor wrapped Mother in his strong embrace? Has Odin greeted her with the pride of a fulfilled king reunited with his queen? 

“Where the brave shall live forever.” Loki’s words splinter, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

Loki will never see Frigga again; his final words to her a denouncement of her motherhood. He will never see Odin, who claimed with his final breath to love him. He will never see Thor, his ox-stubborn brother.

“Nor shall we mourn, but rejoice for those who have died a glorious death.”

Why should Loki mourn? They were not his family. Frigga was not his mother. Odin was not his father. Thor was not his brother.

Perhaps this Grandmaster will be amenable to the right persuasions. Loki’s magic will surely make him useful enough to keep alive. Maybe the Grandmaster has other vices Loki can sate.

“Damn it,” Loki whispers. The tears are hot and sudden on his face. He squeezes his eyes against them. Sorrow bubbles froth-like in his throat.

Loki pushes his forehead against the wall. It aggravates the wound still open on his forehead. Pain, yes. Loki fixes on it. Real pain. The pain of now.

They were nothing but obstacles standing in the way of his greatness. The great lies of Loki’s life. Loki cannot care, he _won't_ care.

Loki feels like an severed vein bleeding out onto the floor. The tears will not stop. Loki keeps his forehead on the wall. Without it, he may - he doesn’t know. Loki’s heart is pounding. He feels dizzy.

They were never his family...

But when Loki repaired a bird’s wing with his magic, Mother shined on him a smile that made his heart ache.

But the first time Loki rode with Thor into battle, Thor grinned with such pride that he seemed to Loki a sun.

But the first time Loki attended a delegation at his father’s request, Odin waved a hand to the seat at his right. “You will sit beside me, Loki,” he said. “You will listen. And when I ask, you will share your thoughts with me alone.” How Loki despised his father that day - not trusting Loki to speak before these powerful people! What a fool he was to not read Odin’s favor in the gesture. What a fool they all were.

It does not matter. Loki will simply go it alone. 

Tears scar Loki’s face, and his chest convulses with sobs. Loki bites his knuckles, his fury a muted whimper. His own fragility makes him angry. He wants to destroy this room, this kingdom, this entire planet!

Perhaps Thor still lives. Perhaps he fell from the bifrost like Loki to Sakaar, or he crashed on another planet entirely. Perhaps he is alive, perhaps…

It doesn’t matter. Either way, Loki is alone. He has always been alone, and he will always be alone.

The sound of a barrier’s hum touches Loki’s ears. The cell’s door opens, and footsteps enter. Four guards, Loki counts. His back is to them, fist still pressed to his lips.

“Hey, guess what? It’s your lucky night, friend, becauuuuuse - wait for it - you’re meeting me! The Grandmaster! - Oh, praying type, huh? Guess that’s - I mean, that’s fine. Would have thought you’d be more prepared. We did say ‘tonight,’ right? Did we give him a time? Topaz, did we give him - it’s a ‘he,’ isn’t it?”

“From what we can tell,” a bored voice responds.

“We should give people a time, let them get ready. I mean, this moment, it’s a big deal! Meeting me, the Grandmaster, it’s kind of a big deal isn’t it?”

“There’s no clock,” the bored voice says.

“There’s no.” A pause and the click of a tongue. “I’ll be damned, there’s no clock in here. Hey, you - Titus, right?”

“Tim.”

“Get a clock in here, would you? How’s he supposed to know it’s nighttime? It’s not like there are any windows, for crying out - oh wow, hey.”

The speaker stands in the center of his entourage, dressed in golden robes. He wears a stripe of blue from his bottom lip to his chin. Powerful. Loki feels an old, grand magic expanding through the room.

Loki is still on his knees. His face is swollen pink, tears running down his cheeks. He should care about these things, but he...can’t, oddly enough. Failure may be the difference between life and death in this moment, but Loki feels too tired.

The Grandmaster frowns to the woman at his right. She wears orange-plated warrior’s armor and holds a staff bulbed with citrus-like orbs. “What’s he doing?” the Grandmaster asks. 

“He’s crying,” the woman answers.

“Yeah, but why’s he crying? Hey you, um-” the Grandmaster tilts his head. “What’s with the tears? Is that blood on your face? ...Yikes, you did a number on the wall, didn’t you?”

If Loki were so inclined, he could repair the wall with a wave of his hand. He is not inclined. He is so tired.

Mustering his voice, Loki murmurs, “If you intend to kill me, Grandmaster, I would prefer not to wait.”

“ _Kill_ you?” The Grandmaster recoils. “Who said anything about - ok, which one of you said killing? Was it you? Titus?”

“Tim.”

“Did you tell this guy I was going to kill him? Is that why he-” he faces Loki, “is that why you’re crying? You think I’m going to kill you?”

Loki closes his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says. “If you want to, that’s fine, I suppose.”

“What kind of attitude is - I don’t - Topaz, we need a clock in here. I can’t - I don’t know what to do with this. He’s bleeding, he’s filthy. Did anyone feed him? Hey you, on the floor... Damn, you’d be pretty if you were cleaner. Are you hungry? Did they give you anything to eat?”

Loki would rather think about the time Mother winked when he grew a frog in Odin’s boots. Or illusion snakes in their schoolmaster’s cup; Thor laughed so hard tears streamed from his eyes.

He wants to think of Odin’s tired, resigned face. _I love you, my sons._

Loki turns from this mighty creature and rests his forehead against the wall again.

“Is that a no? Hello? You on the floor.” The Grandmaster stutters behind him. “What is he doing? Why is he - this isn’t - um, you do know who I am, right? You saw the video? We’re working on a new version, better music, get some bass in there. Oh, and _strobe lights_. We’re definitely going for strobe lights. Topaz! Did he not, did this guy not see the video?”

“He saw the video, Grandmaster,” she says. 

“Then why’s he - I mean, I’m used to a little crying, but this is - I don’t know.” The Grandmaster huffs. “I don’t get it.”

“Here you go,” Topaz says.

Loki hears shuffling behind him, and a startled scoff. “Why are you handing me the melt stick?”

“He saw the video,” she says.

“What’s that have to do with-”

“He’s crying.”

A groan. “That’s not a capital violation, Topaz.”

“He broke a perfectly good wall.”

“For crying out loud, we’ll fix the wall! Hi, hello, you there.”

When Loki glances over his shoulder, the Grandmaster has hunched to his eye level. “There he is. You, hi. So, I’m thinking we got off on the wrong foot.” He places a hand on his own chest. “I’m the Grandmaster. You did see the video, didn’t you? I’m top dog around these parts. Sakaar, that’s where ‘here’ is. Lots of things get lost on Sakaar. I’m lost too, you know. The first lost and the first found.”

“Yes,” Loki mumbles miserably. “I saw the video.”

“Oh good, he saw the video. You’re off the hook, Titus.”

“Tim.”

“So, great news.” The Grandmaster steps closer and bends in front of Loki. “You’re lost! I mean, sure, it doesn’t seem great at first. But you’ve gotta be lost before you can be found, right?” He smiles. “You’re here with us on Sakaar now, which means you’ve been _found_! What do you think of that?”

Loki can’t help it, he laughs. The sound jumps out of his throat, high pitched and less-than-stable. He rubs his swollen eyes. “Norns, just kill me already.”

“Were you not - was he not listening?” The Grandmaster looks to his brigade for confirmation. “I mean - sure, we kill _a few_ people here. Contest of Champions wouldn’t be much of a contest if everyone strolled out alive, would it? We kill bad people too. People who deserve it. Like my cousin Carlo, I’ve been looking for that guy. Gambling again. He’s got a condition, poor Carlo. Totally killing that guy when I find him. But _you_.” The Grandmaster sets a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “I’m not killing you, alright? So if you’re crying because you’re scared? Don’t be. For now. I mean, unless you do something you should be scared about. Which you won’t, I’ve got a good feeling about you. You’re - you seem like a guy I can trust.”

Loki debates using what strength he has left to rip the creature’s hand from its wrist. Perhaps then he’ll be seen as worthy of killing. “I’m very tired,” Loki says. “I’d like to sleep.”

“Oh yeah, of course. Are you-” the Grandmaster’s eyes widen. “Are you crying because you’re tired? You made yourself stay up to meet me?”

Loki smiles wearily. “Yes. I never would have forgiven myself for missing you, Grandmaster.” Sarcasm oozes from every word. Perhaps now the staff the warrior Topaz holds will be put to good use. 

“Well sure, that makes sense,” the Grandmaster nods sympathetically. “You must be spent! This room isn’t the best for sleeping. Where are our manners? Topaz, let's take - what’s your name again?”

“Loki.”

“Oh, that’s a good one. Short and easy. Me likey. Topaz?” The Grandmaster looks over his shoulder. “My new friend Loki is crying because he’s tired, but he stayed awake because he didn’t want to miss me. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Precious,” Topaz says. She sounds torn between stabbing Loki and herself.

The Grandmaster smooths Loki’s hair from his face. Loki thinks again about breaking his hand. “So, Loki. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to have Titus here-”

“Tim.”

“-take you upstairs to the - let’s do the emerald wing. Green like your eyes, I bet you’ll like that.”

“That's too big for him,” Topaz says.

The Grandmaster shakes his head. “We’ll get a bath drawn for you, and you can tuck right into bed. Tomorrow, we’ll get you fitted for some new clothes. Nothing like starting the day off fresh and clean, am I right?”

“Sure,” Loki says. He isn’t going to die tonight, or so it seems.

“Great!” The Grandmaster’s face brightens. “I’m glad we understand each other, Loki. Well then. Goodnight.” Loki blinks at the chaste kiss the creature presses to his forehead. “Sweet dreams. No more crying. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Loki says. “Thank you.” He wants to scream.

Tim, dark under his yellow uniform, escorts Loki through Sakaar's oddly textured halls. Every passageway seems more gaudy than the last. They ride a conveyor powered by an old gear-based mechanism to what seems to be the top floor of the tower.

A door opens to a room large as the throne hall of Asgard. A chandelier hangs overhead, the bed draped in a canopy of green silk. The rugs, emerald threads braided with gold. Its artwork is a strange blend of impressionism and portraits of the Grandmaster. A sculpture of the creature lifts a victorious fist while a well-bosomed waif clings to his leg.

Loki startles at hands that begin methodical removal of his clothing. His torn, dirty armor is stripped piece by piece. Loki feels like ice - like his _true self_ , he realizes. A nasty laugh splinters from his lips.

“Ticklish?” he’s asked.

“This world is ridiculous,” Loki says.

A pause, then, “You’re not wrong, but it’s better than most.” The answer would be intriguing, if Loki had the energy to care.

Tim kneels to remove Loki's boots and pants. To Loki’s eyes, his own skin appears paler than usual, and thin. Not sunned and strong. Not like Thor.

Loki hooks a lip between his teeth. His eyes water threateningly.

“Should I stay?” he’s asked.

“What?”

Loki frowns at the hand that sweeps his hair over one shoulder. The back of his neck is bared for warm breaths and a touch of lips. “Should I stay?” he’s asked again.

Loki closes his eyes. He starts to drift against the sculpted uniform of his escort. A hand lowers, pressure squeezed into Loki’s soft cock.

“Leave,” Loki says quietly. The weight at his back eases, and footsteps click across the floor. The door to the room opens and closes.

Loki is alone. As he’s always been, as he always will be.

Sleepwalking footsteps take him to the bath. It is drawn and oiled, smelling of the cornflowers from his youth. Thor used to chase him through those gardens as children. Loki would snarl when Thor pinned him in the long grasses. “Got you, Loki, got you!” with a grin of triumph.

How Loki hated Thor for his might, but how glad he was that Thor always chased him. Every time Thor caught him, delight warmed his face like Loki was a prize greater than the throne of Asgard.

Loki rises from the water and dresses himself in a sleep robe. Stumbling, he returns to the bedroom.

Loki does not bother with the bedcovers. He curls on top of them, hair still wet, and closes his eyes.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: There's no crying on Sakaar!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, thank you so much for the lovely feedback! ^.^

Loki does not rise at dawn. He does not rise at mid-morning either, save for a piss and to curtain the floor-to-ceiling windows. He does not rise at midday, or late in the afternoon. The heel of Loki’s palm grows red from scratching. He feels cold, but he does not slide under his covers. Loki is probably thirsty. Definitely hungry. He does not seek relief from either condition.

No one sees him about new clothes. Loki is grateful to be alone.

Night comes again. Loki washes his face. It is swollen and awful. He returns to bed and does not rise in the morning.

His door opens at midday. Loki’s back is to it when sandaled feet swan their way across emerald-edged tiles.

“Boy, when you said you were tired, you weren’t kidding!” The Grandmaster circles the bed, smiling in his unbothered way. “You know how many meals you’ve missed, sleepy head? Five. And I don’t think you’re a species that doesn’t eat… _Are_ you a species that doesn’t eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” Loki mumbles. 

“That’s, um.” The Grandmaster's brow quirks. “That’s not what I asked. You’re a species that eats, right?”

“Yes,” Loki replies, “but I’m very tired. I would much rather sleep.” He tries for a smile, more wince in the end. “Thank you, Grandmaster, for your generosity.”

The Grandmaster’s frown deepens. “But you’ve missed five meals.”

“I’m in need of rest-”

“Five _very good_ meals. If you’re afraid you can’t eat what we’ve got on Sakaar, you’re way off. I’ve only got the best here, Loki, the _best_. We get stuff from all over. Nice thing about being in the land of the lost. It'd surprise you what people forget.” The Grandmaster winks. “It’s good. Lunch, I mean. I know we’ve still gotta work out your clothes- oh, is that why you haven’t been up? You don't know what to wear? Don’t worry! I took some guesses. I mean, the size won’t be exact, but-”

The Grandmaster waves at the dressers along the room’s back wall. Their doors fly open, revealing rows upon rows of clothing. Suits. Armor. Capes. Leather. Silk. Shoes. Jewelry. 

Loki closes his eyes. “I’m not hungry,” he says.

“Are you, um.” The Grandmaster covers Loki’s forehead with a hand. Loki grimaces. “You’re not sick, are you? If your type gets sick, do you get a fever? Some get hot, some get cold, some melt. Like wax, bleh, all over the place. Are you a melter? It’s nothing personal, just - you know, we like to prepare for that sort of thing.”

“I’d like to sleep,” Loki says, quieter. “Please.”

The Grandmaster pulls his hand from Loki’s forehead like its slighted him. “Does your kind always need this much sleep?”

Loki thinks of Odin collapsing to the floor of Asgard’s vault. Staring into Loki’s blood red eyes as his blue hands left the Casket. Not his true father, of course. Odin was nothing to him.

“Yes,” Loki mumbles, “we do.”

“Oh.” The Grandmaster nods, clearly mystified. “Well sure, ok. Are you- what I mean is, Mildred mixes this mean Oyster Stew. It’s creamy, it’ll knock your socks off. If you were wearing socks; which, by all means, you don’t need them. You’ve got nice feet, look at those toes, super cute. If you’re not hungry, you could still, I don’t know, try a little? For me? Come on.”

Loki should be grateful he’s landed on a world with a master who is so agreeable, albeit insane. He should already have this creature eating out of the palm of his hand. But he can't. This is all wrong, Loki doesn't feel right, why can't he… He’s always handled everything himself! Why is everything falling apart now?

Loki squeezes his eyes shut. “I need to be alone.”

“I guess. Sure. If you- wait, don’t, you’re not... I told you not to-”

Loki smothers shaking breaths against his pillow. “I’d like to be alone,” he repeats as the first tears fall.

“I _told_ you.” The Grandmaster’s voice sharpens. “No more crying. Didn’t I tell you? We don’t- there’s no crying on Sakaar! I told you, didn’t I?”

“And I told you to leave!” Loki bursts, without thinking. This is unwise, but he doesn’t care. Stars, he doesn’t care anymore.

Damn Thor, damn Odin, they are above him even now. Canonized in the pantheon of Asgardian heroes while Loki waits to die on this disgusting planet. Soon to be murdered by this ridiculous creature for mourning a family that was never Loki’s own. Loki has never _had_ a family, he's never had _anyone_ , and yet...

“Why don’t you make me stop? Why don’t you make me, with your- with this.” Loki grabs the obedience disk fastened to his neck. He pulls on it hard enough to make himself yelp. It’s as if his skin, veins, and all the muscle beneath are seconds from ripping out. “Silence me, Grandmaster. I’ll be docile as a lamb for you. Do it. Do it!”

“Oh for crying out loud. Is that what’s got you so upset? You can’t even- is it _my_ fault you don’t get how stuff works around here?” The Grandmaster scowls, mouth shaking in anger. “Oh you- you’re- I’m upset! I’m _very_ upset! Maybe I’ll cry too, that’s what I’ll do. Or I'll drum up a public execution, how about that? This is Sakaar! If you can’t wrap your head around how things work, maybe you’re not what I thought you were, Loki.” The Grandmaster reaches inside his robe. Something clicks, and Loki recoils.

The obedience disk falls from Loki’s neck and lands with a thump on his lap. Loki frowns at the circle, plucking it between his fingers. He startles when the Grandmaster snatches it from him.

“Why don’t you cry about that, huh?” The Grandmaster snaps, standing. “I thought you were a good catch, Loki. But you- stars, I can’t _stand_ you right now! Maybe you should stay lost, how about that? You don't deserve to be found.” His grin is all malice and triumph.

Loki despises him. What an awful creature. A bumbling, stupid _waste_ of power. An egomaniacal psychopath. As vile as the trash he’s built his kingdom on.

His words still leave Loki shaken. Loki is furious, he could kill something! He is cold too. He’s so cold, he just wants to sleep. He doesn’t want to think. He’s tired of thinking, tired of feeling. “You’re right, Grandmaster,” Loki says. “I don't deserve to be found.” Loki feels the Grandmaster’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t care. Norns, he doesn’t care anymore. This entire planet could disintegrate with Loki on it, he would not care.

The door to the room slams shut. Loki shoves hair from his face and sits against the headboard of his ridiculously beautiful bed. Its green canopy hangs over him like branches of a willow tree.

There may still be time to escape before the Grandmaster orders his execution. Loki tries to think of a plan, but his brain refuses to cooperate. Everything is slow. He used to burn with the frantic desire to conquer, to _win_ \- finally, just once! But now...

Loki’s heart drops to his stomach when the door flies open again. It won't be so long before the execution after all. The Grandmaster is in a huff. All angry lines, marching fast, face creased with displeasure.

He sets a bowl on Loki’s nightstand. “You _will_ eat this,” the Grandmaster says. “If it’s not clean to the bottom by sundown, so help me, you’re- I’m going to- I’ll melt you down! I’ll string you up in the streets! I’ll feed you to my beloved champion! He won’t fight you, oh no, he’ll _eat_ you. That’s right, that’s what he’ll do. So you’d better,” the Grandmaster jabs a finger at the bowl, “eat it. And don’t you _dare_ raise your voice again. We don’t cry on Sakaar, and we certainly don’t shout. This is a happy place, a place of the found. Do you understand?”

Loki isn’t sure what’s happening. He nods, unclear on what else to do.

“Good.” The Grandmaster shifts from foot to foot. Oddly, he too seems unsure of what to do next. “Good!” he repeats, louder. “You’re on the clock, Loki. Don’t make me kill you.” He departs in as large a tizzy as when he arrived. Loki stares after him, bewildered. 

The bowl is warm, and a gold spoon rests inside. The soup is a creamy white, flecked with some type of red and blue vegetables. Loki spoons a taste of it into his mouth.

It’s divine. It’s better than that, it’s- _gods_ , he’s hungry. 

The bowl is empty in minutes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3: Dinner Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the sweet comments! ^.^ This is a shorter chapter as we all get our bearings post-Infinity War. More fun to come from here. Enjoy!

Loki draws a fresh bath and gives himself a generous pour of cornflower oil. As he suds his hair, he allows his thoughts to roam. He is a child again, climbing trees in the palace orchard. Or reading in the fields as Thor sparred with the Warriors Three. How oafish he found his brother's shouts when Thor secured his inevitable victories. Loki smiles and splashes water on his face.

The dressers the Grandmaster filled are impressive, Loki hardly knows where to start. He selects the first thing he sees - a blue tunic with shoulders paneled in black leather. The blue does not match the Grandmaster’s facial decoration, but it is a complimentary shade. Loki adds black leather slacks and a gold chain, in honor of the robes of his Sakaarian host. The Grandmaster seems the type to notice such touches.

Loki’s current disadvantage is unusual. This is hardly the first time he's found himself in a strange land with an unbalanced ruler's favor to win. But on those occasions, Loki marched in at his most polished. He wowed with his wisdom or magic and engaged with his flair for wit. Loki could offer more violent services, too, if needed.

The Grandmaster has seen Loki at his most vulnerable. Loki feels exposed, even dressed in his new clothes. He may have ruined his opportunity for safe harbour on Sakaar. This is problematic; for the time being, Loki has no place else to go. His only advantage is that Hela must believe him dead after his fall. She is not the first of her bloodline to make this mistake.

With Thor dead, Loki will not advance on the place. He mourns for his home, though he is loathe to admit it. Asgard brought Loki many shames as a child, always a disappointment beside his golden brother. Loki hated the place for its constant judgment and mockery. Yet, the lakes were blue and the mountains were grand. The castle walls gleamed gold and flowers bloomed sweet in springtime.

Loki smiles for himself in the mirror. He finds a lingering fracture in his eyes, some jagged edge he cannot reach deep enough to soothe. Perhaps this pain is part of him now. Perhaps it, too, can be used to his advantage.

At sundown, the door to the room flies open. The Grandmaster marches to Loki’s nightstand, sandals smacking tile. He inspects the empty soup bowl with mouth pursed tight. “You get to live another day, I guess." 

His tone is difficult to read, and Loki puts on his most sincere contrition. “You were right, Grandmaster,” he says. “I never should have denied your generosity. Please forgive me for the foul things I said.”

The Grandmaster’s sternness becomes a curiously raised brow. “Well...yeah, you were pretty rude, if we’re being real here. But - water under the bridge!" He grins. "Look at you, sweet thing. You’re up, you’re dressed. Are you hungry?”

“Famished,” Loki says. It isn’t a lie.

“ _Famished_.” the Grandmaster echoes, delighted. “What a great word. In that case, join me for dinner? You look great, Loki, wow - and you smell _divine_.”

Well, Loki is a god, so…

He decides it safe to allow a bit of intimacy. “The bathing oil,” Loki confides, “cornflower blossoms. It brings back fond memories of home.”

“Oh yeah?” The Grandmaster’s smile grows. “Would you look at that. So many species here, so many stories. One thing means so much to you. To someone else, it’s just - poof - it’s nothing.” He sets a hand on Loki’s arm. Gentle as the touch is, Loki feels static under the creature's skin. It hums with something undeniably powerful. “You’re smiling,” the Grandmaster notes. "It suits you.”

Loki lowers his head as he hopes is appropriate. This is not the first time Loki has played to the ego of a madman, but it’s the first to involve physical compliments. In truth, he is not sure what to say.

“Hey, hey.” Loki freezes when a hand cups his chin. When he lifts his head, he finds the Grandmaster frowning. 

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Your eyes,” the Grandmaster says. “I like them. Look at me.”

“Oh.” Loki lifts an unsure smile. “Sure.”

“Mmm.” The Grandmaster leans close, and Loki’s breath catches in his throat. Not surprised, really, but...

The Grandmaster’s lips barely graze Loki’s forehead. “Shall we?” he asks, holding an arm out.

Loki blinks. “Yes.” He tucks his through the Grandmaster’s. “Of course.”

On this second voyage through the halls of Sakaar, Loki is even more struck by its oddness. Every room is a clash of disparate colors and shapes. Green lines snake over mauve octagons, orange circles sit on stripes of magenta.

Loki is just as startled by the Grandmaster’s silence. Given how the creature seems to enjoy the sound of his own voice, their quiet stroll is jarring. “There seems to be great history on Sakaar," he tries. "Your kingdom has been here quite some time, has it not?”

“Oh yeah,” the Grandmaster obliges. “A lot longer than you’ve been alive, that’s for sure.”

Loki chuckles at his presumption. “I’m no child, Grandmaster. The lifespan of my people is thousands of years.”

“You’ve lived one or two already, I’d imagine.” Loki nods, and the Grandmaster laughs pleasantly. “A drop in the bucket. But I'd like to think I’ve kept a good figure for my age.”

A drop in the bucket?

Loki looks at the Grandmaster for a moment too long. He covers his curiosity with a gentle laugh. “In that case, you’ve kept a wonderful figure.”

“Mmm yeah, you have too.” The Grandmaster pats Loki’s arm with affection. To Loki’s surprise, he says nothing more, simply walking on with a pleased hum.

As they descend deeper into the labyrinth of Sakaar’s grand tower, activity increases. Figures of all shapes and sizes cross their path. Loki stumbles to avoid tripping over a blue thing no taller than his boot. He pauses again to allow the pass of a lurching behemoth with two heads. Loki is well-read and traveled, yet many of these species evade his knowledge.

All seem to be in a lively mood, at least. The Grandmaster welcomes enthusiastic laughs and greetings as the crowd grows thicker.

Looks of blatant curiosity turn on Loki, who accepts them with a just-as-blatant grin. Being with the Grandmaster has made Loki an object of fascination, it seems. Perhaps Loki should be more wary, but for now he basks in his newfound position of envy. In a place such as this, he has to believe being known will have its advantages.

They walk together into a bustling room, vibrant red walls crossed by off-white lines. The smell hits Loki immediately - a symphony of scents, overwhelmingly complex. The tables display a feast grand enough to make victory celebrations on Asgard blush. Meats of creatures Loki does not recognize range across one wall. There are soups, vegetables, and baked goods both sweet and peppery to the nose.

Loki cannot find a guest without drink in hand. He smiles with a bewildered sort of wonder.

“Well?” The Grandmaster nudges Loki’s side. “Not bad, huh?” His eyes gleam, but he waits for Loki’s opinion, as if it truly matters in the middle of this spectacle.

“It’s fantastic,” Loki admits.

The words win him a wider smile. “Oh yeah? Good, good! That’s what I like to hear. Well then,” the Grandmaster takes Loki’s hands between his own, “you go eat to your heart's content, mm'kay?”

Loki raises a surprised brow. “You’re not-” He stops talking when the Grandmaster pecks his cheek.

“I’ll be here. Mixing, mingling. Duty calls, Loki. I am the _Grandmaster_ after all. But you, you eat as much as you want, and grab a drink!” The Grandmaster beams. “Have I told you I like what you're wearing? The blue, gods, it’s _fantastic_ on you.”

Confused, Loki nods. “You did, yeah.”

“Excellent. I’ve got the best taste, the _best_.” The Grandmaster smiles and squeezes his hands. “Delicious. You - stars, you're better looking than the spread. Go have fun, Loki. Let your hair down. Relax.”

Loki’s hair is already down, and relaxing is certainly not in his nature. Before he can protest, the Grandmaster swans away, disappearing into his adoring public.

Loki can't help but feel miffed, despite the clear insanity of his host. He’s gone from being the Grandmaster’s prized guest to being discarded like a failed courtship!

Still, the scent of the meal calls to Loki. He may as well make the best of things.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4: The Red Drink
> 
> * Explicit *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is also known as: the one where Daisy reuses a bunch of random side original characters from an earlier fic ^.^ Thank you so much for the kind words so far!

By the time Loki follows the crowd out of the dining hall, he is - by his own standards - stuffed.

It was a shock to find Asgardian delicacies among the assembly. Most impressive, poppy-lemon cakes topped with mulberry jam. Loki treasured the treats like gold as a child. Rare were the occasions when Loki was allowed to enjoy them. Odin often expressed disappointment at Loki's lack of merryment at their victory feasts. In truth, the occasions made Loki nauseous. Only so many times one could watch Thor polish off a ham in seconds and demand another just as quickly... 

Loki was often sent to bed without his precious desserts. He suffered his father's dismissal with resentment. But, more than once, his brother made up for it with a grin and two secret cakes smuggled in a napkin.

A kind gesture, but in time Loki soured. He suspected Thor of doubting his cunning, stealing such little things as if Loki were incapable of making his own mischief! One night, Thor opened his door, and Loki showed him the mightiest baked trout ever seen. Stolen without a trace from the preparation rooms. Loki grinned at his victory, and - to his surprise - Thor did not balk. He took Loki in his arms, kissed his head, and said, “Come, trickster brother. Let us share your prize.” 

(‘Share’ is, of course, a relative term when it comes to Thor and food. But Loki enjoyed a small bit of the fish as Thor polished off the rest and picked his teeth with a bone. No trout Loki has tasted since has ever compared.)

At times, Loki looks back and finds only fondness for his ox of a brother. Thor was arrogant, self-serving, inconsiderate, brutish. But Thor loved Loki in his own idiot way. And Loki... He shakes his head, silencing the train of thought.

Loki wonders at his own lack of drowsiness, full as he is. He can only attribute his energy to the now third drink in his hand. Odd metal bolts adorn the martini glass’ stem. The drink is blue as sapphire, but its flavor eludes Loki. Weak, whatever it is. Loki does not feel the slightest bit light-headed.

The party moves to a lounge dressed in red and criss-crossing white lines. The floor is one large mirror, bodies of the assembled suspended as if walking on water. Music rumbles like a lion’s purr, and legs collide in sensual dance. Attendees laugh on couches or play games along the back walls.

Loki finds the Grandmaster seated on a white sofa steps above the fray. Twin women sandwich him, hair bobbing above their heads in elongated buns. They take advantage of their short dresses, legs laced between the Grandmaster’s. He has a hand on each lap and grins like a giddy child.

Loki observes two things; one, the Grandmaster has eyes for no one else in the room. If he notices Loki’s arrival, he shows no signs, nor does he pause his conversation to greet the rest of his court. Two, the other attendees, like Loki, look to the Grandmaster for acknowledgment. Their attempts are subtle, quick glances and tilted heads. With these requests for attention dismissed, they return to their own fun. Smiling and laughing as if nothing is amiss. But they continue to try, loyal subjects begging for the attention of their leader.

Unlike them, Loki is no dog in need of a master. He goes to the bar along the back wall. “I’d like something stronger,” he says.

The bartender's skin is the black of space, flecked by crystal, star-like freckles. His eyes are milk white. Loki cannot place the species; far from the first time tonight. “Stronger than the blue?” he’s asked.

“I feel nothing,” Loki says, placing his used glass on the counter. “I’m more than happy to take your recommendation.”

The bartender nods. Bottles are flipped, a glass shaken and strained. The drink, red as rubies, fills a fresh martini glass. “Mind yourself with this,” he’s told.

Loki nods and lifts his glass in a toast. “Cheers...?”

“Zopal.”

“Zopal, thank you.”

“A pleasure, Loki.” Loki frowns. Zopal answers his unasked question before he can voice it. “You are the Grandmaster’s guest. Loki, Breaker of Walls.”

Breaker of… Norns.

Loki smiles, pleased despite the ridiculous title. His status may be more respected than he realizes. 

Returning to the crowd, Loki samples his drink. It has a pleasing flavor, sweet as springtime blossoms, but it lacks even a marginal bite. Sakaarian liquor cannot impress the constitution of a Jotun, it seems. Loki takes a larger swallow. He decides to make the best of things.

Loki’s silver tongue suits him well in gatherings such as these. There is a decadence to the Grandmaster’s hall that Loki feels at home in. He makes casual conversation. Amiable chatter turns to more involved laughter. He spins stories of how he arrived on Sakaar, and his poor foresight to put a fist through the Grandmaster's wall. His audience laughs; with him, Loki notes, not _at_ his misfortune.

Through these new friends, Loki peels away the layers of Sakaar’s debauchery. The drugs, the drinks, the long nights, the sex. The Grandmaster has a sky barge used solely for orgies, Loki learns. He cannot say he’s surprised.

He pries for information on Sakaar’s Contest, a fight to the death lorded over by the Grandmaster’s champion. A beast, his new friends enthuse, more monster than man. Brute strength, savage, a true master of killing. Sounds like Loki’s type of fun. The champion does not attend the Grandmaster’s gatherings, he’s told. Such a feral creature would be dangerous unleashed upon their company.

They all speak well of the Grandmaster. He is generous, they say, and cunning. His executions are riveting, his parties devious. They have all lain with him, it seems, or they desire to. As they speak, they rake hungry eyes over their wholly disinterested host. The Grandmaster does not spare them a look; not even Loki, who feels his desertion like a cold shoulder. Loki’s status on Sakaar may not be as secure as he’d hoped.

He memorizes names and faces. Ketch, the endearingly oafish Xandarian. Darla, the purple-haired Kree beauty. Tomas, a species more mannequin than man - smooth white skin where one should find eyes and a mouth. Loki’s new friends may be useful one day, but all will be for naught without the Grandmaster’s blessing. It remains crystal clear to Loki that there are no shortcuts in this kingdom. Security is only guaranteed by remaining in the Grandmaster’s favor.

Sighing, Loki orders another of the red drinks and spreads himself on a black couch. He still does not feel the slightest bit fuzzy, but his body relaxes easier into the cushions. He lies back with a hum and watches the crowd. It’s growing rather interesting in here. Clothing already covers a good portion of the floors. Skin of all shades reflects back at him. 

Across the room, the Grandmaster shares a kiss with his two companions. Both have managed to squirm into his lap. Even from this distance, Loki sees the Grandmaster rub between their legs. Their dresses hike up and their bottoms wriggle happily.

Loki closes his eyes and lifts his drink to his lips. “I wouldn’t do that,” he’s told as the sweetness touches his tongue.

It takes Loki a moment to place the guard Tim, yellow uniform replaced by leather and chainmail top. “I was warned of the potency,” Loki assures him, smiling. “It seems to have been overstated.”

“It wasn’t,” Tim says.

“Hm?” Loki makes a disgruntled noise but does not fuss when Tim plucks the glass from his hand. He still wanted that, but the effort to keep the drink feels too great. Loki is better off lying here, nestled in these lovely cushions. “Have you been sent to keep an eye on me?” he asks.

Tim shakes his head. Then, he asks, “Should I stay?”

“What?”

“Should I stay?” Tim braces a gentle hand on Loki’s forehead. Loki’s eyes slam shut. The touch makes pins and needles break out on his skin. Color blushes to his face and creeps hot down his neck. He feels dizzy without warning - the drink’s potency rearing its head?

No - no, Loki isn’t drunk. But he thirsts. Gods, he thirsts. “Yes,” he hears himself saying, reverent as a prayer. “Yes, please stay.”

Tim’s weight shifts the couch cushions. The change of pressure under Loki’s body makes his heart slam against his chest. Tim’s fingers scale Loki’s cheek. “One full red,” he assesses. Loki hangs on every word. “One blue here, one with dinner.”

“Two with dinner,” Loki whispers. He feels short of breath.

Tim sighs. “Don’t do that. Most of Sakaar’s harmless, but not everyone...plays nice. Get it?”

His voice is like a pianist tickling the keys of Loki’s spine. He nods, realizing that he would say yes to anything in this moment. He wonders if he is always this agreeable, or if it’s the voice. Loki wants to curl in it like a warm blanket. He wants to let it dribble onto his tongue and sink under its surface like a scented bath.

“I should take you upstairs,” Tim says.

Loki presses trembling kisses to the hand beside his face. “No,” he says. “I can’t wait for - I couldn’t possibly wait for-”

“Alright.” Tim’s voice twinges with humor, and Loki shudders his approval. “Open up, then. Let me in.”

Open his legs, he means. A thrill shivers through Loki, violent as an adolescent’s first brush with desire. His knees shudder apart like an ancient gate.

The guard is strong and thick, and his weight stings Loki’s stretched thighs. Hands push him into the couch cushions. In another mindset, Loki may have looked sourly upon this manhandling. At present, he makes an ungainly sound and twines eager arms around his companion. Tim is all shoulders, a wide plain for Loki’s fingers. He mourns a lack of hair to pull. In its absence, the slits of Tim’s shirt are the next best thing. 

Oddly, Tim will not kiss him, save a graze of lips to his cheek. Loki turns for him pathetically. Gods, he’s out of his mind. His lips ache like a dying man chasing one final drop of water. He cannot recall a time when his throat felt so parched. Not in the cold darkness of the Void. Not in his wretched cell at the mercy of the despot Thanos. Not crawling in pathetic defeat in the kitchen of Tony Stark. Not even when the life left his lungs on Svartalfheim.

A mighty potion indeed - Loki did not see this coming, but he should have. The Grandmaster’s wanton affairs clearly have help spiraling out of control. Loki has no eyes for his surroundings, though. He looks into the dark gaze on his, asking in feeble silence for kisses that have yet to be bestowed. What must Loki do to earn them? What must he do to have Tim completely? He will do anything. Anything at all. How terrifying.

“Don’t forget why you’re here, Loki, Breaker of Walls.”

Loki laughs weakly. “Not you too... _Norns_ , why won’t you kiss me?”

“You’re here for one thing.”

Frustrated, Loki ducks his head into the thick stretch of Tim’s throat. The spice he wears is intoxicating; one breath and Loki is out of his head. The world spins, and only fastening his mouth to Tim’s skin seems to make it stop. Loki sucks, he licks. The salt of Tim’s body tickles Loki’s senses. 

“You’re here for him,” Tim says. Loki’s head is forced back by a finger under his chin. He feels the stretch of his neck, and he groans his approval. “We all are.”

“The Grandmaster seemed rather busy on last check,” Loki dismisses. “So are we. I fail to see the problem.” His cheeks flush pink, a glassy blur to his eyes.

Tim catches his chin between thumb and forefinger. “Look at him,” he says. Loki looks at Tim instead. Dark eyes, yes, but with a thread of gold through the irises. A beautiful face, chiseled like a statue. Loki envies the power in his hands and yearns to be further crushed into the cushions.

Tim begins to unfasten Loki’s pants. Need shoots excitedly to Loki’s groin. He lifts his hips and mouths at Tim’s jaw. Teeth scrape bone and catch on stubble. 

Loki is sampled with a touch, and his breath whooshes out. “Oh,” Tim says. He sounds thoughtful.

“What?” Loki pants. “Am I not to your liking? Will you take my mouth instead? Or my fingers, I’ll do - I can do many things-”

“That’s right,” Tim muses, looking down his body. “A single.”

“A what?” Tim’s mouth quirks - his teeth are a brilliant white.

He rises, and alarmed protests froth in Loki’s throat. They die when Tim reclines on the other side of the couch. He keeps a lazy arm around Loki, urging Loki’s drink-loosened body close. Loki is clumsy as he slides on top, knees opening around Tim’s body. Groaning pleasure, Loki shifts closer. Tim’s body is mountain-thick between his thighs. Loki presses closer, unashamed, seeking as much as he can get.

“You sure?” Tim asks. “The red makes it intense.”

Loki nods wildly. “Gods yes.” He cannot remember ever being so overcome. While he has favored many sexes over his life, rare have been the times when a man has breached him so easily. Loki does not trust, and he certainly does not make himself vulnerable to another’s advances if he can help it. But Loki needs to be fucked. If he isn’t, he fears the skin may melt from his bones.

Loki is serious enough to flex a magic-laced hand. Their clothes dissipate on cue, folding in neat piles on an unused portion of their couch. Tim raises an impressed brow. “Breaker of Walls, and a mage to boot.”

Loki is too busy staring at his body to respond. His eyes descend towards the guards cock, but he finds nothing. Or...well, not quite nothing. Where Loki is used to one’s shaft, he finds a nestling of four mounds of silvery flesh. Like testicles, but glittering against the deep lines of Tim’s pelvis. 

Tim makes an amused sound at his confusion. “You’ve never been with a Lothian, I take it.”

“I don’t mean to stare,” Loki says. Though, he does - it’s fascinating.

His drink-addled brain weighs apprehension against the opportunity for orgasm. The choice is clear. Loki puts on his most alluring smile and drags a hand down Tim’s chest. Unfair, all his ripples and things. Loki’s cock twitches at the mere sight of him. “Will you be using your hands, then?” Loki asks. The being does have marvelous hands - big and bony, and such strict knuckles! Loki imagines them crooking inside, rubbing with sharp, rough points. He shudders in delight.

Tim considers him with brow raised. His curious expression becomes a shrug. “That may help you, yeah.”

The last thing Loki needs right now is help. His hands shake through the simple casting it takes to produce a jar of oil. His cock bobs hard and red over Tim’s stomach. The sound of the jar cap unscrewed makes Loki shiver in anticipation. He leans in, scowling at the turned head that greets his attempt at a kiss. No matter, his teeth catch Tim’s ear. A thumb circles lubricant over his hole, oiling him copiously without entering.

Loki may not partake of this position often, but he is no virgin. He shifts downward, admonishing Tim for his cautiousness. “Alright,” Tim says. 

His fingers are thick and wonderful pushing past the crown. Loki’s body is long untouched here. He’s grown tight, aching marvelously around the being's fingers. Tim scissors them wide, stroking Loki inside with a delightful squish of oil. Loki feels warm and wet, and his hips slide more easily than anticipated.

“Yes,” he breathes, muffled by Tim’s skin. Yes, absolutely, he can be brought to heel like this.

Tim angles his wrist, and Loki sits back. His fingers - gods, they’re long. Loki’s breath hums out. He finds himself free of the usual snags of his pride. His lips smear broken endearments into Tim’s skin as the fingers crook delectably. His head is spinning. Tim’s hand works deep and easy, as if he somehow knows Loki’s body.

Loki makes a low sound when Tim’s fingers leave him. The absent pressure leaves behind a hollowness that he tries in vain to clench around. “You...needn’t concern yourself,” Loki hisses, trying to save face. “I can handle far more than that.”

He’s answered by an amused twitch of lips. “I know,” Tim says. “Relax.” Loki cannot relax. He is delirious and hungry, and if he isn’t taken now his heart may spring free from his chest.

Loki waves a hand, and his skin coats with oil of his own. With a lazy smile, Loki coils dripping fingers around his cock. The touch is a worthy substitute. One squeeze sends Loki's head reeling, and his breath pants out.

A hand tangles in his hair. “Relax,” Loki is told again.

Loki starts to laugh at the audacity, but he feels something. Round and slick, wedged between his legs. Loki’s eyes snap downward.

The graying orbs low on the guard’s pelvis have...moved. Spread, actually, no longer fixed to his skin but extended by leathery strands of muscle. Two have stretched between Loki’s legs. They nudge against him, the rounded texture of eggs. 

“Right,” Loki gasps, recalling. “A single, you called me. You’re...not.”

“That’s right.” The hand in Loki’s hair kneads firmly. Wary as Loki is, he has to fight to keep his eyes from rolling back.

“Look at me,” Tim says, and Loki does. The guard’s expression is warm, the gold more visible in his eyes. It seems to fleck through the very pores of his skin. 

Loki feels them inside. Two bulbs, soft but spreading. They stroke into him, rolling smooth. Loki’s knees nearly collapse beneath him. This is not the first time he has been fucked by an anatomy different from his own, but the sensation is new. Loki's forehead finds Tim’s for balance. His mouth is open, but no sound comes out, only a startled breath as the orbs spread deeper.

They slide in with ease, and Loki feels his body responding. The angle seems to work; they’re deeper, then right there, nestled inside Loki. He hisses and pushes forward, grinding for more. The appendages stretch him further. Loki’s breath catches, and he blinks. “Do you,” he swallows, “use all four?” His question is answered by a clench of fingers in his hair. Loki shudders, his hand tighter around himself.

He’s surprised when the pressure inside dims, the bulbs settling along the stretched rim of his hole. The other two join them, stretching his crown. Loki is leaking oil, puffed pink and gaping. “What are you-” Loki’s words fade when a strong hand grips his face. Tim’s mouth covers his. Loki nods into it gladly, scratching encouragement between Tim’s shoulders. 

He shocks still at sudden wetness between his legs. Something thick presses between the quadrant of bulbs thrumming around his hole. Loki’s attempted question is muffled by the kiss. A kiss that isn’t a kiss, is it?

Tim is not kissing Loki. He’s sucking him. Pulling on his lips, chapping them raw. It hurts, and it makes Loki’s blood rush hot. He groans and scrapes bloody lines between Tim’s shoulders. His oiled hand leaves smears of slick on Tim’s chest. 

The wetness delves deeper. It feels like a rimming - only not by any tongue Loki has ever experienced. This is something large, grand, testing the limits of his flexibility. The humming continues. His thighs quake, knees giving way. His weight collapses onto the wetness feeding between his legs. It squirms higher and deeper; it finds Loki's sensitivity, tongues it obscenely. Loki whimpers into the mouth that refuses to release him. He grows light-headed and struggles for air. His heart is pounding, pleasure crashing like rapids down his spine. Loki cannot stop shaking. He can’t think, it’s - it’s so good. _Too_ good.

Loki is warm all over, burning against the contrasting chill of his true self. His face is hot, sweat on his brow. Every movement of their lips makes new pain blossom down Loki’s nerves. Loki desperately winds a hand around himself again. He barely has to touch before his hips are jerking forward and he’s staining Tim’s ridiculous body with his seed. 

Loki has no words when his mouth is released. He feels the swelling of his own lips; it hurts to breathe. Loki collapses onto Tim’s body. His skin is a mess of sweat and cum. Loki can’t even bring himself to grimace. The mighty wetness between his legs leaves a long stripe between his thighs. The humming of the four silver bulbs amplifies the cooling slick.

“How does...one return the favor to a Lothian?” Loki asks. His voice cracks partway.

Tim chuckles. “I’m satisfied,” he says. Odd. Loki wonders if it was the buzzing below or the kiss that marked his climax. His limbs feel like lead, and he rests his head against Tim’s jaw. 

“Should we stay here?” Loki asks. He considers whether his seiðr has the strength to return them to his upstairs quarters. Just the thought of conjuring makes his skull ache.

“There is no ‘we,’” he’s told.

Exhausted though Loki is, he still manages a frown. “What?”

Fingers stroke the disheveled hair from Loki’s face. “I won't get to touch you again, Breaker of Walls.”

Loki starts to ask what he’s talking about, but he’s stopped by a new hand. Flat, sudden, splayed through the sweat in the center of his back. “Wow, what a show!”

It takes a craning of Loki’s neck to meet the eyes of the Grandmaster. Sakaar’s ruler looks over their joined nakedness appraisingly. “Quite the performance,” the Grandmaster says. “Twists and turns. Drama! A bit...too focused though, I’ve gotta say. A little selfish for my tastes. But that’s alright. You’re new here, it’s ok to get caught up the first time.”

Confusion begins to ebb at Loki’s post-coital warmth. He looks more closely at the Grandmaster’s face. Despite the ease of the Grandmaster's words, he looks...less than pleased. 

In the clearing fog, Loki is better able to see the room surrounding them. Clothes are strewn about like a whirlwind’s aftermath. Naked bodies sprawl everywhere. On couches, on tables, on the floor. The mirror tiles reflect a maze of limbs and secretion. The room reeks of sex, and Loki’s stomach turns.

“I, ah…” Loki trips over his tongue. He does not feel well at all.

The Grandmaster grips Loki’s chin. Loki grits his teeth, bleary eyes forced to meet the Grandmaster’s.

After a moment, the edge in the Grandmaster’s gaze softens. “Oh. Too much, huh?”

“Three blue,” Tim says beneath Loki. “One red.”

“Red? My, my. You’re holding up pretty good, huh?” The Grandmaster gives Loki’s head an affectionate scrub. Loki finds himself too dizzy to protest. “Thank you, Titus-”

“Tim.” It takes Loki a moment to realize he’s said the name at the same time as his partner. The two exchange a look, an arch of surprise between Tim’s brows.

The Grandmaster blinks. “Wait, what? Has your name been Tim this whole time? Geez, why didn’t you say something!?” He discards his own question with the flap of a hand. “Tim. Thank you, you took such good care of my Breaker of Walls. Even got him to use some of that nifty magic he's been hiding. The thing with the clothes? Neat trick, Loki, real neat!”

His seiðr. The Grandmaster knew all along that he…

If Loki had the energy, fear would pit in the root of his stomach. As it is, he can only stare, pressure throbbing behind his eyes.

“Yeah, you’re... “ the Grandmaster chuckles, “you’re done, huh?” He traces a thumb across Loki’s feverish cheek. “Mm’kay, let’s get you upstairs.”

One moment, they are in the mirror lounge. The next, they are somewhere else. Not the room Loki has grown accustomed to, but another dressed in gold and red. He’s stretched across a downy white mattress, Tim no longer beneath him. Loki wonders if this is the Grandmaster’s chamber. He aches all over, exhausted and soiled.

Numbly, Loki notes fingers threading through his hair. “Oh, Loki,” he hears. “ _Stars_ , what a show.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5: Questions
> 
> * Explicit *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the amazingly nice comments ^.^ Enjoy!

The bifrost shatters. Sleeves tear from Loki’s outstretched arms, and ribbons of blood slice across his hands. He spirals into space, reaching for the rainbow’s end.

Fragments of light burst like fireflies in summer. A lump forms in Loki’s throat. He strains, shoulders aching, kicking at nothing. Pieces of light sift through his fingers like diamonds turned to dust. So far away. Intangible; an exhale in the dead of winter.

His brother, off on another mighty adventure; a path Loki was never meant to follow. Always in Thor's shadow, even now. How poetic.

From somewhere, a sigh. “What - again? Oh, Loki. What are we going to do with you?”

Loki shudders awake in the center of a massive bed. His fingers are white-knuckled in a pillow, old tears cold on his face. A thumbnail, painted blue, rubs under one eye. The Grandmaster sits over Loki, frowning.

“A dream, Grandmaster.” Loki wipes his tears hastily.

He wakes to a deep ache rooted in his muscles and dried sweat sticky on his skin. A thin sheet is his only source of decorum, pulled just high enough to cover his sex. Pressure throbs behind Loki’s eyes. He pinches them, rubbing away salt and the grime of a fitful sleep. A testing touch finds his mouth raw and chapped. 

“Oh yeah?” The Grandmaster sounds skeptical. “Here on Sakaar, we prefer good dreams to bad, but… Hey, hey!” Loki’s hand is wrenched away from his face. He tenses, heart pounding.

_I like your eyes,_ Loki remembers. _Look at me._

Exposed as Loki feels, he forces his red-rimmed eyes to meet the Grandmaster’s. He conjures a smile. “Your patience with me means a great deal, Grandmaster. I’m sorry I upset you.”

After a moment, the creature’s displeasure breaks with a hearty sigh. “ _Fine_ , you’re forgiven. You know, you - you’ve got a real talent, Loki. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to stay mad at you!”

A thin line indeed. Loki masks his apprehension with gratitude. “I’ll double my efforts. You’ve given me so much, Grandmaster.”

The Grandmaster waves off the sentiment and drags a thumb across Loki’s lips. His skin is wet with Loki’s tears, and the salt burns his swollen mouth. Loki holds his flinch in check, only a pinch of discomfort. The Grandmaster hums. “Too good a performance, maybe. A little rough for my tastes.”

Loki jumps in before his train of thought can stray too far down this path. “Necessary, I’m afraid. I overdid it last night. I...needed it.”

Loki’s face warms with embarrassment. He wonders why he's bothering to shame himself. To spare the guard Tim from…what? Is the Grandmaster upset that Loki wears signs of the previous night’s revelry? Why should it matter, given the state of the other party-goers?

The Grandmaster’s smile curls with greater intrigue. “Is that so?” He peels Loki’s lip down and lets it spring back into place. Pain spikes through Loki’s face. He hisses a breath. “Mm, I see. Tim took real good care of you, huh?”

Despite his smile, Loki senses something off about the question. A deeper seriousness creases the Grandmaster’s brow, and Loki hesitates on his answer. “The drinks,” he offers carefully. “I was a bit out of my head.”

“Yeah well.” The Grandmaster’s new smile is gentle and understanding. “Don’t worry your pretty head too much. You made a mistake, a bad one, but that’s ok.” He kisses Loki’s brow, tender as a mother to an unwell child. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Loki hopes the Grandmaster cannot see the utter bewilderment on his face. He gapes after a response, swollen mouth floundering. 

After a moment, Loki decides on a hunch. Carefully, he turns, the perfect angle to tuck his face against the creature’s neck. A winning guess, Loki gathers, from the surprised “oh” that follows and the arm that tucks around his waist. The Grandmaster smells sweet even after a night of merry-making. The kiss Loki nuzzles to the Grandmaster’s neck earns a pleased laugh.

This is ridiculous, and warm. Loki has never known peril like this. The hand drawing on his back is soothing, despite every alarm warning Loki to stay on his guard. He listens to the slow, even breaths of Sakaar’s master and loses himself in the power buzzing through his hands. Such a mighty thing - his fingers are energy itself. Why does he conceal his magic? What _is_ he?

“Loki sweetheart?”

Loki blinks slowly and frowns. It takes a moment to realize he’s dozed off at the Grandmaster’s side. The creature is on his back now, arm looped around Loki’s shoulders. Loki raises his head from the Grandmaster’s chest. The warmth in the Grandmaster’s face startles away his apology.

“Hm…" the Grandmaster smiles. "A bath sounds nice, don’t you think? I’ll throw in some of that oil you like. What’d you call it? Cornflower blossoms?” Loki isn’t sure whether this is a true ask or a polite demand. Either way, his post-sex body is in need of a soak, and they are far beyond the point of modesty. Loki nods. The Grandmaster’s face takes on a new light. “Oh good! Wait here.”

The mattress shifts, and the Grandmaster crosses the floor to an adjoining room. Loki hears water, and he sighs as he rolls to his back.

Large as his own Sakaarian quarters are, the Grandmaster’s suite is twice as large. Odd, though - eccentric as the creature is, this room lacks his usual gaudy touches. The bed is canopied in red silk, marble floor tiles rimmed with gold. The art on the walls is straightforward; forests, oceans, and the like. There are no statues to the Grandmaster’s bravery or sexual prowess, no clash of colors or odd shapes. With its classic artwork and royal colors, the room would be right at home in Asgard’s palace.

Loki wonders what side of the Grandmaster is most true - the loud eccentric or this softer touch. It has been days, but Loki still does not have a read on him. An unusual puzzle. Loki is not used to floundering at so great a disadvantage.

“Come on, gorgeous.” The Grandmaster stands in the bathing room’s doorway, robes open. His body is firm and tanned. The anatomy is like Loki’s - his cock, though soft, offers a promise of its potential. 

No reason to be modest given what the Grandmaster has already seen. Loki peels back the sheet and joins him, naked. His steps hitch, last night's soreness clenched between his legs.

A hand catches Loki’s chin. “Yes?” Loki asks. “What-” His words are overtaken by a kiss. The gentleness of the gesture catches Loki off guard. He sucks in a breath, and the Grandmaster hums in answer.

“After you,” the Grandmaster says. Loki blinks at him. It takes him a moment to remember the bath.

“Right.” Loki smiles and proceeds, but his mind screams questions.

What is this? This affection - is this the creature’s standard behavior? His subjects fawn over him; yet the Grandmaster is running Loki's bath, not theirs. He's perfumed it with oil to Loki’s liking, with such reverant touches and kisses. Loki has become the creature’s favorite doll, it seems.

But, why discard Loki the night before? Why let Loki become just another sideshow in his late night orgy? All questions without answers. How frustrating.

The Grandmaster’s bath is large enough for far more than two. Sand-toned marble steps lead to the tub’s rim. Loki climbs them carefully and descends into the warmth. The scent of blossoms floods his nose immediately. The water embraces his sore legs and winds around his waist. The steam is sweet. Pink flushes his cheeks, and he sighs before he can stop himself.

With low-lidded eyes, he watches the Grandmaster take the opposing seat. His skin’s sunned shade is even more enticing when wet. As he reclines, he breathes a sound Loki can only describe as a purr. Hardly the worst master circumstance has forced Loki to sate. Loki smiles, confused as he still is. 

“Hey.” The Grandmaster palms cleansing soap into his hands. He rubs them to a lather, smiling across the pool. “Your hair - do you mind?”

Normally, Loki would. A prince of Asgard’s hair is not to be trifled with. But, given the Grandmaster's mysterious power, he could demand anything of Loki. Allowing the being to wash his hair seems rather tame. “Not at all,” Loki says.

There is room on the Grandmaster’s seat for two. Loki fits between his knees, the gentle pressure of legs against his waist. “Relax,” the Grandmaster says, “there you go. Mm, look at you.” 

The Grandmaster's touch is easy, a rolling massage that soaps Loki’s hair to a thick lather. Power shivers through the Grandmaster's hands. It tingles on Loki’s scalp, and drowsy pleasure sinks through Loki’s limbs. Such intimacy. Loki has not had his hair washed by another since he was a child.

Gentle ministrations like these are foreign to Loki. As a young one, sure, Loki had his lovers. There were fun nights, rough nights, sleepy nights under the stars. This doting is new, though, and Loki’s body wars between wariness and delight. He sinks against the Grandmaster’s chest. Combing pressure breeds warmer feelings. New heat touches Loki’s face and blushes down his chest. Weary as Loki is after last night, his body still reacts.

“Oh wow,” the Grandmaster hums. “Responsive, huh?”

If this is what it takes to win favor in this realm, Loki is more than happy to play along. Loki cranes his head back and offers a coy smile. His lips touch the Grandmaster’s. A chuckle answers the gesture. “Oh, I see.” A soapy hand drifts from Loki’s hair to his neck. Fingers press bubbles into Loki’s jaw and urge his face to turn further.

Their second kiss leaves no question. Loki tastes the creature’s desire, and he gladly feeds it, dizzied by the hand rubbing suds into his scalp. His arousal urges him to drift deeper between the Grandmaster’s legs. It takes all patience to keep from wrapping a hand around himself.

A shift assures Loki that he is not alone in his wants. The Grandmaster’s cock rubs the base of his spine, thickened to an impressive size. Loki shivers - how wonderful to not have to play at this. His desire is real as he teases himself back, an open-mouthed sigh of want into their kiss.

“What a catch,” the Grandmaster breathes. “You… Loki, I was wrong. You deserved to be found.”

“Yes,” Loki agrees softly. “Yes, I - where are you going?” The question blurts out before Loki can hold his tongue. He’s left on the seat alone when the Grandmaster rises from the water.

The Grandmaster bends to kiss Loki’s dripping forehead. “Why don’t you finish up, take your time. I’ll pick you up tonight. Dinner, my place?”

This entire kingdom is his place...

Loki frowns at the overture, and at the Grandmaster’s aroused body retreating to the other side of the tub. “Don’t you want…” The Grandmaster turns. Loki quiets but shoots a very obvious look between his legs.

“Pretty _and_ generous!” The Grandmaster laughs, clearly pleased. “You're the cutest thing. Don’t you worry about me, Loki. Dinner later?”

Loki forces a smile past his confusion. “Yes, I'd love that. But, the um, the clothes you selected for me are all-”

“Shhh.” The Grandmaster brings a finger to his lips. Loki quiets again, not quite able to hide the irritation from his clenched jaw. “I’ll send something for you,” the Grandmaster promises. “Until then, get some rest. You went through quite the ordeal last night! I don't want you to push it, not on my watch.”

“Of course...” Loki stares at the Grandmaster’s dripping back. The Grandmaster snaps a finger, and his skin immediately dries. Another snap, and gold robes cover his naked skin. Loki hears the bedroom door open and shut.

Alone, Loki stares through steam at the place where the Grandmaster stood seconds ago. “What?” he asks the empty room. No answers, yet again.

***


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6: The Collar

Loki rinses the suds from his hair. The longer he lingers in the scented bath, the angrier he becomes.

Is this what has become of Loki? Prince of Asgard and rightful king of the Jotunheim, reduced to the plaything of the lord of a planet of garbage? Loki offered the creature what he desired. He presented himself at his most vulnerable, allowed this - this _thing_ to revel in his pain. Only to be cast aside again like some base amusement!

Loki despises the Grandmaster with every shred of his being. He despises his damned half-sister for casting him onto this forsaken rock. Loki hates his brother for dying - damn Thor, he was never Loki's brother. His father, never his father. His mother...

Loki tugs one of the Grandmaster’s silk robes from the back of the bathing room’s door. Hands shaking, he conjures his knives. 

Loki wields them until new sweat dots his brow. The silk sticks to his skin, and tears burn in his eyes. He slashes nothing for a time, then turns to targets of his own making. The Grandmaster’s grinning face. Hela, with her crown of thorns. Stark is a favorite; Loki pierces his reactor, and the fool's own technology burns him alive. Loki screams rage at a smiling Thor, and laughs bitterly when his brother falls by his hand.

When Loki raises his head, his younger self smirks back at him. Fresh in face and shorter in hair, brows raised in casual mockery. Loki stabs the fool through the heart.

Loki’s knives clatter against the gold-trimmed tiles. He shoves trembling fingers through his hair.

Self-preservation is not in the cards with such an unpredictable ruler. Loki’s only option is clear. He does not know where he can go, but he needs to remove himself from this kingdom as soon as possible. Loki dries the sweat from his skin and wraps himself again in the Grandmaster’s robe. Pacing the length of the room, he waits and tries to think. 

Every few minutes, his eyes stray to the arched bedroom doors. Loki senses no barrier, no warding or other sigils.

Loki is not prepared to make his escape now, and out the front door cannot be the way to do it. Still, what harm could there be in an innocent test?

Loki taps the door handle. It does not hurt - no buzz of electricity or sudden alarms. When Loki pushes, the handle gives. Frowning, Loki pulls the door open.

The warrior Topaz stands in front of him, as if she expected his appearance. She is not holding that odd staff from his first evening in the holding cell. What other power does she possess? Does her magic rival the Grandmaster’s? Or is her braun enough to overpower her enemies? 

Loki gives himself the advantage against her, but this feels short-sighted. Instead, he smiles in kind apology. “Topaz, isn't it?”

“You were told to wait here,” she says.

“I am, but-”

“You were told to wait,” she repeats.

A crease of annoyance flits across Loki’s brow. He smooths it with a far too tickled laugh. “Yes, but you see, the Grandmaster said he would return at dinner. The day is young, and I’ve grown hungry.”

Topaz looks him over. “Bullshit,” she says.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Bullshit,” she repeats. “You don’t eat.”

“I eat,” Loki snaps. At the warrior’s glare, he huffs. “Water, then? Or would you have me drink from the bath like an animal?”

“When the shoe fits,” Topaz says. She shoves Loki aside before he can protest and grabs the door handle. “Water,” she says, and slams the door in his face.

Loki’s surprise gives way to blinding fury. When a knock sounds at the door seconds later, Loki rips it open, dagger in hand.

It is Topaz no longer. Instead, it is the twins the Grandmaster aligned himself with the evening prior. One holds a tray with a pitcher of water, a glass, and a rainbow assortment of sliced fruits. The other, a large box with an ocean blue bow. “Breaker of Walls,” they say in tandem. When they nod their greeting, twin buns bob high above their heads.

Exasperated, Loki flicks the knife away and gestures into the room. “Anywhere,” he mutters. He keeps his back turned until the bedroom door shuts behind them.

Loki’s first instinct is to shatter the glass, the pitcher, and everything else in this room. His next is to turn towards the gift box.

What matter of humiliation has the Grandmaster drummed up for this evening? Will it be intimate wear only? Or did the creature gift him an empty box, a further mockery of the state of undress he left Loki in today? With clenched hands, Loki rips the ribbon off and tears the lid from the box.

Inside, Loki finds black leather slacks and a long-sleeved black blouse. The neck is high-collared, open at the throat and cut down beneath the collarbone. At the bottom of the box sits a gold necklace. A sapphire oval centers it, shaped like a cat’s eye. Loki takes it into the bathing room and holds it to his throat. It will fit tight, he sees, the oval meant to wedge into the hollow of his neck. The band is thick, solid gold.

A collar; a public display of the creature’s ownership. Loki laughs out loud.

Oh, the joy he’ll have murdering this beast! Is it not enough to have his vulnerabilities exploited by the Grandmaster? Now Loki himself will be paraded out as the his personal doll? Loki will kill the Grandmaster or die trying. What does it matter? It’s not as if Loki has anything more to lose.

With this decision, a sense of calm comes over Loki. He leaves the Grandmaster's robe puddled on the floor. Loki pulls on the leather slacks and follows with the dress shirt. Both fit impeccably; trim to his body, the collar a perfect casing for his neck. Its slender part is an alluring trait, a tease of milky white skin from throat to chest.

Loki peels the fabric down long enough to hook the necklace on. It fits snugly, a cool presence looped over his skin. Loki ties his hair into a high tail, better to show off the accessory.

In the bathing room, Loki smiles for himself in the mirror. The fracture remains in his eyes, a knife’s edge desperate to slice. Murder reflects from his swollen, smirking lips. Loki looks broken and unbreakable. He looks like a god.

Green flashes abruptly in Loki’s eyes, and thin threads of seiðr crackle around his fingers.

Loki stutters away from the mirror. He starts for the necklace clasp, pulse racing. Could it be a ward of some kind? A charm to restrain his power and render him helpless beside this unfathomable thing?

Power winds lovingly around his fingers. In his own gaze, he sees a storm - bright as a field of emeralds, glittering and immense.

Loki stops. The jewel is not binding his magic. It’s…

“Oh my.” The Grandmaster's arm appears around Loki’s waist without warning. His mouth teases the clasp at the back of Loki’s neck. “I knew it! Look at you - oh Loki, it's _perfect_.”

“What is this?” Loki asks, breathless.

Fingers urge his head back for a kiss. Magic teases from the Grandmaster’s hands, and Loki’s flare in reply. Their lips bind with threads of energy unseen. Such blissful power!

Loki closes his eyes and sinks against the Grandmaster's chest.

***


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7: Secrets
> 
> * Explicit *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely feedback, I really appreciate it! ^.^

The attention Loki earns from the Grandmaster’s court doubles from the night before. His necklace draws their stares like a magnet. Loki holds his head high, tied hair bobbing between his shoulders. The Grandmaster's hand sits in the small of his back, and every few steps he squeezes.

Seiðr rolls through Loki's body like waves on a shore. The Grandmaster’s power, in harmony, climbs Loki’s spine like spiderwebs. Every step spills magic to the tips of Loki's toes. Loki is dizzy with his own strength.

In the dining hall, the Grandmaster leans close. “Duty calls, I'm afraid.” His words spark against Loki’s ear.

“Of course it does.” Loki smiles. He feels in control for the first time since he fell to this lowly place. Grief and frustration cannot touch Loki with such might at his fingertips. “Don’t let me keep you,” he says.

Something shifts in the Grandmaster's gaze. “You'll be alright on your own?”

“Oh yes,” Loki assures, taking the Grandmaster's hand between his own. Their skin ignites like electricity. Like lightning, Loki thinks; a laugh bursts from his lips. He shakes off the Grandmaster’s puzzlement. “You are the Grandmaster,” he says lightly. “You have far more pressing matters to attend to than me.”

The smile fades from the Grandmaster's face. “Yeah, well… Don’t you worry, Loki. I'll find you soon.” 

Loki kisses him softly. The eyes of the court swivel in their direction. “Take your time,” Loki says.

The hand in the small of Loki's back clenches. “One drink,” the Grandmaster says. His voice is lower, far more serious. “I'd hate to find you in a state like last night. You gave me quite the scare.”

Anger, power, and ease swirl in Loki’s veins. Loki holds the Grandmaster's gaze with a smile. “As you command,” he says.

His host, it seems, does not like this response.

Loki’s chin is seized roughly as new light floods the Grandmaster's eyes. Finally - _finally_ the creature’s pleasantry gives way to genuine anger. Something far more dangerous than an argument over the merits of crying or oyster stew.

Loki chuckles kindly and eases forward to kiss the Grandmaster again. Loki’s guess is correct. The Grandmaster returns the gesture - no, overpowers it. The hands holding Loki grip hard enough to bruise, and an onslaught of power singes Loki's mouth. The Grandmaster's might is incomprehensible. Terrifying. Intoxicating. 

“Have fun,” the Grandmaster says. His tone promises fun of the most painful kind. Loki licks his lips, a silent promise of his own, and walks away without another word.

Turning his back is a mistake. Loki feels his host’s displeasure trailing him like a shadow, but even this makes Loki smile. The Grandmaster’s anger is far preferable to being treated like a broken bird. Ever since Loki’s arrival on Sakaar, he has been off-balance, raw as a fresh wound. Loki has missed this confidence. He has missed being the god of mischief.

The crowd's attention follows Loki to the evening’s feast. Unbothered, Loki fills his plate with poppy cakes and searches for a place to down them. He decides on the closest bar. His own reflection distorts from its metal counter in a blur of black and white. Loki pops a cake into his mouth and licks smudges of jam from his fingers. This, he does with far more relish than usual - on Sakaar, even this simple gesture is a performance. For the first time in days, Loki feels up to the task.

Behind the counter, the bartender Zopal watches him, clearly unimpressed. Loki feels an immediate kinship. “If I ask for water,” he wonders, “should I worry about its potency?”

Irritation narrows the brow of his new friend. Loki allows a kinder smile as he rests his plate on the bar. “Entirely my fault,” he says. “You did warn me about the red.”

Zopal pours Loki’s water in silence. He does not speak until he sets it on the counter. “The blush is the mildest,” he says. “Then gold. Purple. Blue. Green. Red. Black.”

“I'll be steering clear of that last one, thanks.” Water in hand, Loki takes a cursory look around. The attention on him has waned now that he has escaped the Grandmaster's ire. Loki does not see the ruler himself. No doubt, the Grandmaster finds this part of his own affairs trifling. Does the being even need food or drink to sustain himself, or does he simply partake for his own amusement from time to time?

With a chuckle, Loki returns to Zopal. “Do they have names, these drinks? Or are they called only by their colors?”

“Colors,” Zopal says. “It's easier.”

Apparently, the Grandmaster caters to a kingdom of simpletons. Loki pops a fresh cake into his mouth. He hums as he chews; they truly are remarkable, a taste of childhood. “Have you been on Sakaar a long time?” he asks.

“Time is relative here,” Zopal says. “But yes.”

“Relative? How do you mean?”

“Days are weeks here. Weeks are years in other realms.” Zopal wipes a martini glass, white eyes on Loki. 

Odd. Was Loki struck from the bifrost only hours ago? Or have years passed in the ruins of Asgard while Loki has toiled days in this strange place?

Loki regards Zopal with interest. Flat, no embellishment; Loki finds he trusts the bartender more than anyone he has met thus far. He nods his thanks and pops a third cake in his mouth. “You wouldn't happen to know of any Asgardians on the kitchen staff?” He dabs jam from a corner of his lips with a thumb.

Before Zopal can answer, Loki hears his name shouted across the length of the room. His acquaintances from the night prior wave at him. The purple-haired Kree, the burly Xandarian, and the featureless Tomas. 

Loki turns to thank his bartender friend. A martini glass of blue awaits him. “One is safe,” Zopal says, “for a thing like you.”

His milky eyes pierce deep. Does he see to the Jotun lurking beneath Loki’s Asgardian skin?

Loki takes his plate and glass with a nod. “I value your judgment,” he says.

With this, Loki descends into the fray, his most delighted smile extended. “My friends!” he greets, “Have you tried the poppy cakes?”

He scans the crowd as he crosses. No Grandmaster. So be it.

***

Hours stretch into twilight as the party moves from dining hall to evening haunt. Blues and blacks dress the night room, lit by elaborate candelabras. Floor to ceiling windows encase the space, grand views presented of the wormholes above Sakaar. The skyline dances in pink and red, the largest portal blaring like an inverse volcano. “The Devil’s Anus,” they tell Loki; he scoffs at the name.

Loki lets his empty glass slip from his fingers. This time, he is prepared for the ease that washes through him. As promised, the blue’s effects are quieter. Lazy pleasure without the accompanying panic. In this haze, Loki enjoys contact, and he finds his new friends more than happy to assist. Power slides from the Grandmaster’s collar, and Loki shivers under its warmth. His legs sprawl over a lap, face nestled against the chest of the Xandarian. The oaf Ketch is telling some inappropriate joke about wormholes and other holes. Ketch may be an idiot, but his voice is nice; low, simple. His mammoth hands toy with Loki’s ponytail.

Loki turns away when Ketch tries to kiss him. “You remind me of my brother,” he protests drowsily. “Big and dumb, as it goes.”

“That’s hot,” the fool says, but he leaves Loki be.

Ketch and Darla find each other instead, and Loki is more than happy to lie between their fervor. They pull his hair and rub him through his clothes.

A glance assures Loki that the Grandmaster has not shown. Cast aside again; perhaps Loki incited his host to a deeper anger than he thought? Loki sighs, so be it.

His breaths grow rough when fingers white as death cross his lips. Tomas’ orifice-less face remains a wonder. Loki licks the being’s fingers in encouragement. “How do you engage in these affairs?” he asks.

The answer whispers from hand to mind. _I touch._ An intriguing proposition.

Loki shifts his legs wider and smiles at the eased pressure of his pants opened. Tomas’ touch is delightfully cool.

“Liesmith.” Loki purrs approval at the hand that wrenches his hair back. His upside-down mouth finds a blood red kiss. “I called dibs, you silver tongue,” Darla croons. Her mouth is sweet with drink, and Loki sneaks a longer taste. Darla is a wrangler, she's said, whipping grunts on the Grandmaster’s fight cards into line. This occupation triples her attractiveness in Loki’s eyes. The very thought of a whip makes his cock throb under his far-too-confining slacks.

“Well, you and the big fellow are occupied so- _oh yes_." His words fail when white fingers coil around his sex. Loki’s reaction is breathy and startled, and his companions laugh. His reward for his slip is lips, teeth, and hands - gods, blessed hands. Ketch strokes Loki's throat through every cracking moan. Loki does not complain.

Loki again searches the room. No Grandmaster.

He gives up and fades into their hands - in his hair, down his blouse, under his slacks. Tomas’ voice caresses his brain. _Good, yes. So good for me._ How trite, yet...it’s lovely to be serenaded by thought alone. Loki’s hips rise in question, and his breaths snag on a whimper.

New words ghost across his mind. _You're not alone._ Ridiculous, childish, but Loki gasps all the same. His eyes war between open and closed. Skin bares under his sprawl, full breasts and broad, sunned shoulders. Loki shifts to allow Darla and Ketch their own fun beneath him.

Tomas’ perfectly porcelain cheek rubs Loki's sex. Loki’s whine is quiet, muffled by red nails between his lips. Ketch thumbs Loki's throat in encouragement.

_You’re not alone. Let go._ Loki’s release comes with a grateful sigh. 

Darla and Ketch’s hands become more desperate. Loki tips his head to watch in weary appreciation. He sucks on their fingers and bites bruises into their skin.

What an odd way to wait to die. Loki always assumed he would have it worse.

The room swells to a fever pitch, smacking skin and mounting screams. Loki nestles into his tangle of bodies, pleased merely to exist. A large hand scrubs his head affectionately. How Loki hated when Thor did this in their youth; now, Loki finds himself smiling.

Loki must doze. His eyes open to a darker room. The candles are out, the air textured with smoke. Loki stretches, and his pile hums and shifts with him. 

His eyes catch a retreating figure. Sudden conviction bids Loki to rise and maneuver through a maze of snores and naked bodies. Loki’s shirt is open, his pants gratefully closed. His hair is still tied but clearly fingered, a few pieces falling around his face.

They are nearly to the room's exit when Loki catches up. “I wanted to thank you,” Loki whispers to the guard, paused to regard him. “I was not myself yesterday.”

Tim nods but says nothing.

“I understand now,” Loki says. His gratitude is heartfelt, unfamiliar terrain. He does not like being indebted to anyone. “You protected me.”

“I took what was offered.”

He isn't wrong, but Loki hears the lie in it. “I owe you for your kindness,” he says. “Ask me, and if it's in my power it's yours.”

A smile answers the sentiment, small and cynical. “You don't know what you're doing right now,” Tim says. “Do you?”

“I-" Loki jumps at the sudden hand on his back.

“What are we whispering about?” The hand becomes an arm firmly looped around Loki’s shoulders.

“I was-" Loki's words muffle under the Grandmaster's kiss. It's nothing like before. This is forceful, with a purpose. Loki tries to go along with it, but the kiss is rougher than expected, and his first instinct is to struggle. The Grandmaster does not accept his protest. One arm around Loki becomes two, the Grandmaster's grip more formidable than the strongest steel. The Grandmaster’s fingers hook into Loki’s clothes. Loki wonders how holes don’t burn through the fabric.

Loki chokes without warning. Is the...charm tightening around his neck?

He ducks back, gasping for air. The Grandmaster refuses his request for reprieve. He grabs Loki’s hair, and Loki’s head snaps back.

A weak glance finds Tim still standing before them.

“You've been here long enough to know, Loki,” the Grandmaster murmurs, “I'm ah, not a real big fan of secrets. You know that, right?”

“What - what secrets?” Loki struggles against the collar’s tightness. His vision floods with green like a field of glittering clovers. Seiðr spasms at Loki’s fingertips and whispers between his stuttering lips. His knees weaken, and he clutches the Grandmaster's robes to keep from dropping to his knees.

Strangled by his own sorcery. Of the many ways Loki imagined he would die, this is one he never considered. Agonizing as it is, Loki is quite impressed.

Slowly, sweetly, air returns.

Is Loki imagining things, or does the Grandmaster look surprised? The creature's mouth slacks in a brief flash of - panic? Fear? He draws Loki into his arms like he's handling a piece of glass.

Loki flounders for any advantage. “I've upset you,” he rasps. There must be something to apologize for? But what?

The Grandmaster’s shock turns dark; anger - no, it's something far more dangerous. He caresses an edge of Loki’s collar with a thumb. “Oh, Loki,” he sighs, “my Breaker of Walls.” 

Loki scrambles for anything to project over his gnawing dread. He manages a weak smile. “I.. thought you were bored with me, Grandmaster. Forgive me.”

“What? _Bored_ with you? Loki, you - are you kidding me? How could you think something like that?” The Grandmaster flaps an impatient hand. Loki believes the gesture is for him until he registers Tim’s quickly retreating footsteps.

What is this?

“You never returned after dinner.” It seems ridiculous, but what other reason could there be for this sudden anger? “Did I not wear your gifts to your liking? Or - or maybe in some other way I-"

“Let's get out of here,” the Grandmaster suggests. His eyes hold some new edge Loki has not yet seen. “I think I want you all to myself right now. How’s that sound?”

Every fiber of Loki’s being tells him to run.

Yet, the morbid side of Loki is curious. What torture will this unfathomable thing dream up? Pain greater than the crushing emptiness of the Void or the torture of the Titan Thanos? Agony beyond the knowledge that Loki is the last of a line that existed only in his own foolish mind?

Seiðr coils like snakes around Loki's fingers. “If you want me, Grandmaster, I'm yours,” he says.

The Grandmaster kisses Loki's magic-laced knuckles. “Oh, I want you, Loki,” he says. For a moment, Loki swears that the Grandmaster's eyes flash blue. “Come with me.”

***


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8: Naughty or Nice
> 
> * Explicit *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the sweet feedback, I'm happy you all have been enjoying this so far ^_^

Loki is not in the dungeons of Sakaar. He takes this as a promising sign.

He is bound, which is...less promising, though the nature of his binding makes him more curious than fearful. Loki hangs in the center of the Grandmaster’s room not by any metal or rope, but by threads of Loki’s own seiðr. Power draws his wrists over his bowed head and spreads his legs by the ankles. His shirt dangles open in his bruised and bitten chest. 

Loki curls his fingers. His magic flexes within him, very much present but refusing his commands.

“I didn’t know,” the Grandmaster says. He stands a few paces away, studying Loki with interest. A pensive frown purses his lips into a thin line.

Loki has no idea what he’s talking about, but given his present situation it seems best to play along. “Can one person know everything?” he asks.

It is, to Loki, a gentle tease, but it sends the Grandmaster into deeper thought. He paces, sandaled feet clicking on marble. “Yeah see, I thought I did! I mean, I guess a guy can’t know _everything_. What’s the point if you get the whole thing figured out, right? But the mystery stuff? That’s like - you know, design of the cosmos, 'reason for life' kinda jazz. Not this, not…you.” He pauses mid-stride to look at Loki.

For some incomprehensible reason, Loki feels embarrassed. “I’ve hurt you.” Loki winces at the Grandmaster’s deeper frown. “If you allow me, Grandmaster, I will make it right-”

“Oh no. Loki, no, no, no, you didn’t hurt me... Well.” The Grandmaster shrugs. “Ok, you got me a little worked up. I just, I thought I made myself clear! I don’t like selfish.” He sighs, waving a hand. “I get it, you’re new. You had the red; oh man, the red’s killer for your type-”

“My...type?”

“Point is, there were mitigating circumstances.” The Grandmaster’s eyes fix on Loki. “But I don’t like secrets. You go on and lie to anyone else here. Knock yourself out!” He crosses the floor, and Loki instinctively shrinks back. Will he be struck? Stabbed? Burned alive by the Grandmaster’s power?

A gentle hand cups Loki’s cheek. “I want you to be honest with me, Loki.” The Grandmaster smiles. “Please.”

It takes Loki an inordinate amount of time to muster a reply. “Of course. Grandmaster, but… Did I lie to you? I’m afraid I don’t understand. You said ‘one drink,’ by that and your absence I assumed I had your permission to-”

“Oh, that was lovely.” The Grandmaster’s smile grows. “You found yourself a sweet bunch, huh? I’d like to know how that lug Ketch is like your brother. Wowza! Quite the family tree!”

The Grandmaster was there; listening, watching. He was there the whole time.

“Complicated,” Loki says quietly. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Blue nails on Loki's jaw urge him to face forward. He braces for whatever punishment may come next.

“I liked your show tonight very much,” the Grandmaster says. His smile is coy, and a light blush warms his face. “You know what I liked most? How you kept looking for me. It was like you knew I was there, like it was a show just for me! That was special, Loki. So special, thank you.”

“...You’re welcome?” The creature beams, and Loki fidgets. His arms ache from being strung up so awkwardly. “So you were - you’re upset about…” Loki frowns, “the guard, then?”

The smile drops from the Grandmaster’s face. “Let’s not talk about him.” Magic threads tighter around Loki’s limbs. Its power burns down to the bone.

Loki tries for a gentle laugh. “Grandmaster, I had no intention of lying to you. I only wanted to thank him for-”

“Don’t,” the Grandmaster says, and Loki’s voice dies on his lips. He tries to speak, then shout. Nothing, only air.

Loki huffs. This is hardly the first silencing spell he’s come across, but it is the most subtle. Loki cannot begin to unknot the magic tied around his tongue. The Grandmaster’s power is so large, yet precise as a surgeon’s incision. He is everywhere inside Loki but fine as a grain of sand.

Loki presses his lips together in a thin line of regret. Silenced, prostrated, and bewildered, submission seems the only weapon he has left.

The Grandmaster twirls a loose strand of Loki’s hair around his finger. “I’m pretty mad at you, Loki, I’m not going to lie,” he says. “But I did a bad thing too.” Only one?

Loki wonders if this is about keeping Loki in a holding cell, or shouting at Loki for his grieving tears. Or when he allowed Loki to drug himself, prey to any aggressor keen on a fuck. Does he mean earlier today, humiliating Loki in their bath? Or is it this damned collar, whose purpose the Grandmaster still hasn’t clued Loki in on?

As if reading Loki’s thoughts, the Grandmaster’s hand drifts to the necklace. Loki braces himself, but the Grandmaster’s fingers stay gentle. “Your magic,” he says, “your...whatever it is. This.” When the Grandmaster pulls his hand back, a wisp of green energy sits on his thumb. The Grandmaster licks Loki's magic away like a smear of jam. Blind, blistering panic pierces Loki’s stomach.

The Grandmaster smiles, not bothered by Loki’s pale face drawing even paler. “It’s _wonderful_ ,” he enthuses. “I thought I’d seen your kind before. Sorcerers and the like, powerful ones too. But you, your...it’s _tied_ to you like a - like another limb. Or no, more than that, it’s like - it’s life itself! It’s your heart, your mind. It’s _fascinating_. You’re something else, Loki, know that?”

Loki is glad he cannot speak. What does one say to having their being dissected so carelessly?

“And I hurt you.” The Grandmaster’s pleasure sours, mouth pinched in distress. “I can’t believe... You’ve gotta understand, I - Loki, I didn’t give you enough credit! I thought you were a pretty little wizard with a few magic tricks, I - wow, you sure showed me.”

A pretty little wizard with a few magic tricks? 

“Do you forgive me?” the Grandmaster asks. Loki feels a shift on his tongue, like a pin released. He clears his throat, testing, and hums behind closed lips.

Assured of his own voice, he carefully answers, “As you said, you didn’t know... What will you do to me?”

The Grandmaster cocks his head, a quizzical tilt. It does nothing to soothe Loki's unease. “Do to you? Oh, Loki,” he chuckles. “Make it up to you, of course. I’ve been a bad boy - Heavens, so naughty! But I can be good too.” His breaths are gentle on Loki’s face. “I can be so good to you. I can spoil you rotten. Mmm, sweetheart, you’re delicious.” He takes a taste, a brief kiss that Loki is too stunned to return. “Will you let me be good to you?”

Loki feels twisted around. Yesterday is tomorrow in this awful place; up is down, good is bad. Is the Grandmaster forcing him to ask for his own punishment? Loki musters a brave face. “Of course, Grandmaster,” he says, risking a smile. “Please be good to me.”

His words earn purred approval and a deepening of the Grandmaster’s kiss. Loki is taken by the friction of his body against the Grandmaster’s robes. His suddenly naked body, still strung by the wrists and ankles. The Grandmaster scrapes a corner of Loki’s mouth with a thumb, plucking him wider for tasting. Loki shivers.

The Grandmaster’s other hand descends the curve of Loki’s back. Fingers eagerly slide to his ass. “Are you,” Loki gasps, “are you going to fuck me?”

The question earns a startled laugh. “What? Fuck you? Oh Loki, no, that’s not good enough for a thing like you, sweetheart. I promised to spoil you, didn't I?”

A thing like him. Zopal made the same observation, martini glass of blue on the counter in the dinner hall.

Loki starts to ask what he means, but the words strangle off his tongue.

Loki is being touched. _Everywhere._ Sensation clenches in his chest and weighs sultry heat upon his tongue. It sucks full-mouthed on his cock and fixes between his legs. It aches through his arms and curls the tips of his toes.

Loki screams. He cannot think to silence himself, he can't think at all! His body is a mess of shudders, and his eyes sting with desperate tears.

“Would you look at that stamina!” The Grandmaster's face is a smear of smirk and colors. “Funny. I usually get it on the first try.”

“W-what?” Loki’s voice cracks into a new cry. He is over-full and on fire. Pleasure twists in his gut. Liquid warmth swallows his cock, draining and sucking.

Loki comes, erection bumping wet on his own stomach. He grabs for his magic, but he cannot control it. His seiðr is everywhere! In his stomach. In his throat. Between his teeth. Burning his eyes. Jammed to his prostate. Slurping his sex. Biting his neck. Lapping up his spine. Green spills from his eyes, his mouth. It jets from his fingertips and forms shadows under his dangling feet. 

“Ahh, there it is.” The Grandmaster watches with unabashed fascination. “What a pretty thing you are.” He eases Loki's tied hair down. Loki is trembling and cannot stop. “Way better than that guard, right?” the Grandmaster prods, grinning. “Way better than him.”

Loki cannot process this sentiment, or anything at the moment. “Grandmaster,” he gasps. His words fracture on a new scream. Loki is, Norns, he's coming again, already ravaged body spasming like a broken spring. It's so blissful it hurts, seed coaxed out by some unseen mouth as unseen tongues drag around his balls.

“Gorgeous.” The Grandmaster strokes Loki’s sweat-damp face with affection. “I'm so happy, Loki. I'm so happy you're mine.”

Loki whimpers. His skin is spilling power from the pores. It's too much, too much, he isn't meant to hold this much! Not without a proper mechanism to contain it. Not without time to breathe!

His hoarse shout greets a new burst of power. Tears spill down his cheek as his body dry-jerks forward. Loki orgasms with no seed; he convulses and moans. His jaw aches from the weight of his own power on his tongue. Goosebumps blister fat across his skin.

“Have I spoiled you, sweetheart?" The Grandmaster thumbs tears reverently from Loki's face. "Do you forgive me?”

Loki shudders at his touch. “Yes,” he slurs, “yes, yes, I can’t-"

Again.

Loki sees stars - so many stars, distant worlds, galaxies even the mad Titan could only yearn for! He sees the past; ancient beasts, blood, and the splendor of life brand new. He sees the future; dark then light, a sun rising on a valley of shadow.

Loki throbs like an open artery. Pleasure and pain weave within him, a fine tapestry. He is on the verge of collapse, his skin a thin film between his meager life and the universe. His body has nothing else to give; his mind, a straining sieve.

“I, I,” Loki begs in a mindless rush, “please, no more, please-" He whimpers relief when he sags bonelessly in the Grandmaster’s embrace. Every inch of Loki’s body is on fire. Loki cannot stop shaking.

The Grandmaster carries Loki to the bed as if he weighs nothing. Loki nearly breaks again as he is lowered to the mattress. This is too much bliss for one mortal body. Even that of a god.

The Grandmaster kisses Loki’s fever-warm forehead. “You should stay here with me from now on,” he says, soft and fond. “How’s that sound?”

Nothing sounds like anything at the moment. Loki fits himself close, as if the Grandmaster's skin can swallow him whole. Maybe it can. Maybe it is.

The Grandmaster kisses Loki’s hair. “Shh. You did good, sweetheart. You did so good for me.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9: Five Minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate the kind words, thank you so much <3
> 
> A bit of a quiet chapter this time, more to come shortly!

“You with me, sweetheart?”

Loki struggles to blink past the stickiness of sleep. The room does not want to focus, bedspread a fuzzy curl of cream and red. The canopy overhead hangs soft as a peach. Loki gives up and closes his eyes again. “Good morning,” he rasps, lulled by the fingers in his hair.

“Mmm, sure is.” The Grandmaster's hand drifts to the back of Loki’s neck.

Loki yawns and fits himself to the warmth of the Grandmaster’s body - his clothed body. A blink assures Loki of the creature’s standard golden ensemble. Blue paint lines the Grandmaster’s lip to his jaw. His bare toes tease between Loki’s feet.

“You missed breakfast,” the Grandmaster says, “but I get it after last night. Believe me, I get it.” Loki wonders if he does; does the Grandmaster sleep at all?

“Thank you,” he murmurs, “for letting me sleep.”

The Grandmaster brightens. “Oh yeah, yeah! We can't have you wearing yourself out, now can we?” His voice… Loki struggles to stop his eyelids from sinking; how luxuriously sleepy he is!

“Am I still to stay with you from now on, Grandmaster?” Loki asks. His words break halfway on a second yawn. He sighs and rubs his eyes. It does not seem to do much good.

A chuckle greets Loki’s question. “I haven’t changed my mind if you haven’t.”

Loki is tempted to say he has. The Grandmaster’s affection is so blatant, overly sincere. Loki wants to test it despite the risk. He wants to know how deep the Grandmaster’s sentiment lies. If it runs as true as the Grandmaster claims, what then? 24 hours ago, Loki felt that he needed to flee this kingdom as fast as possible. 12 hours ago, Loki committed to killing this insane despot or losing his own life in the process. What now?

Loki tucks his face close to the Grandmaster's robe. “Nor have I,” he says.

“Oh good.” The Grandmaster smiles, playful as a youth making mischief. He combs fingers down Loki’s cheek, blue nails teasing the skin. “I swear, I could stay here all day with you.”

“Do it,” Loki hums, muffled in the clothing of his host. “You are the ruler of Sakaar, who would dare rush you?”

The Grandmaster laughs off the suggestion. “As right as you are, gorgeous, this place won’t rule itself. I’ve got arrangements to make, business to attend to.” One of these days, Loki will find out what arrangements and business he has at hand. There is far too much mystery within these palace walls.

The Grandmaster begins reciting his lovely, rambling spiel. _Rest. Take a long bath, relax, don’t push yourself._ How weak must this creature believe Loki to be? As if Loki would ever be content wasting away his days like a fainting waif.

“I’d like to see your kingdom in the daytime, Grandmaster,” Loki interrupts. “With your permission of course. Could I join you for a late lunch? After...after I rest, of course.”

The Grandmaster pretends to consider, but the twinkle in his eyes spoils his answer. “I’m something of a music man, did you know that?”

Loki raises a brow. “Is that so?”

“Here on Sakaar, we’ve got all the latest and greatest in synthesizers. I’m pretty good, only took a couple dozen years of practice...no wait, hundred? Couple hundred? Time’s funny. Anyway! You’ll love it, it’s quite the show.”

This is sure to be a horror or dreadfully amusing. Loki smiles. “I’d like that.”

The Grandmaster tucks a piece of Loki’s hair behind his ear. “After you rest, of course. You need your sleep, sweet thing.” It’s impossible to know whether the Grandmaster is being daft or insulting at times. But Loki can’t deny the sweet lure of the words. The word ‘sleep’ in the Grandmaster’s voice drapes a heavy warmth across Loki’s body. He is blissfully drowsy, too drowsy to wonder at the strangeness of it. Loki is not the type to melt into sentiment or bask in the weakness of his own senses.

Something may be wrong. But concern requires effort, and Loki is so very tired.

Loki stretches lazily to his back. “Might I make a request before you leave me to my slumber?” He smiles, a crooked tilt of a corner of his lips. “Kiss me?”

The Grandmaster raises a brow. “Is that all?” he asks.

Loki scrapes a thumb across the Grandmaster’s painted jaw. “I want to sleep with your color on my face,” he says.

“Hmm.” Playfulness warms to the Grandmaster’s grin. “I did say I have places to be, Loki. Think of the time it’ll take to fix myself up.”

“A snap of your fingers,” Loki counters. “But me? Well, it will take effort for me to clean myself. An extra long soak in the tub, I think. Quite a bit of scrubbing.”

“You...” The Grandmaster leans over Loki’s lounging body. His eyes are dark and interested. “A snap of fingers is all you’ll need too.”

“I won’t use my seiðr,” Loki promises quietly. “I’ll use my hands and water alone. I’ll touch myself until your-hmm-” His words fail under the kiss he wants. Loki delights in the friction of their lips and the taste of the creature’s tongue. The Grandmaster’s hands close over Loki's wrists. Loki arches gladly beneath him.

“Seiðr,” the Grandmaster purrs, “is that what you call it? Delicious.”

Loki drinks the words away, too eager for his taste. He wants his body weighed into the bedsheets. He wants to be kissed until every movement of his mouth brings a stab of soreness. Loki begins to get lost in him. His mouth, his breaths, the restless drag of thumbs up the center of Loki’s wrists. Loki is so very sleepy and content; two things that are not at all in Loki’s nature. But he cannot care right now, it takes far too much effort.

Loki’s voice cracks when the Grandmaster abandons his lips. “Mm. You - Loki, you’re quite the thinker.”

Loki can only imagine what his face looks like, flushed and smeared blue. He scrapes teeth over his own swollen lip. “Again,” he says.

“You greedy thing!” Despite the protest, the Grandmaster sounds delighted. “I told you I’ve got business, right? I’d stay with you all day, but-”

“Five minutes.” Loki draws one of the Grandmaster's hands to his neck. He swallows beneath it, letting the creature feel. “Surely you can spare five minutes for me.” The Grandmaster's fingers twitch around his throat. His thumb strokes the edge of Loki's collar.

“Time’s real different around these parts,” the Grandmaster mumbles. He looks on Loki with hooded, hungry eyes. “Five minutes,” he agrees quietly.

Loki feels a surge of triumph. This odd affection has become enough for Loki to manipulate the Grandmaster. Today, Loki’s victory earns him a kiss, but what will Loki get away with if he asks in a week? In a month?

His victory falls apart under new warmth. The Grandmaster eases Loki’s lips open, his rhythm deep yet knowing. Sparks of arousal sting from Loki's swollen mouth. The Grandmaster scratches a nail down Loki’s neck. Loki whimpers despite his own pride. What a thing he is! A masterful, intoxicating thing.

Loki gasps between their lips, short of breath. The Grandmaster's kiss is divine. Loki follows where he leads. He stutters for air, but he no longer misses it. The Grandmaster’s taste is sinful. Loki’s mouth hurts, raw from the friction of their lips. He is weary, absorbed.

When Loki can breathe again, he says, “Oh,” and nothing else. Has it been five minutes already? Loki shivers from the sudden absence of the Grandmaster’s taste.

The Grandmaster snaps his fingers. The blue stripe on his chin replaces itself without a trace of the mess left behind on Loki’s skin. “What a good idea,” the Grandmaster enthuses. He smears a thumb through the paint soiling Loki’s face.

“I have those from time to time,” Loki rasps.

He raises a limp hand; from it, he produces an illusion - something rather trite where his host is concerned. Still, the Grandaster pays rapt attention to Loki's simple projection of himself. The illusion wears a green laced tunic, trench style black vest, and leather slacks. “Something like this today?” Loki suggests. “If it would please you.”

“Oh yeah,” the Grandmaster says. An interesting, breathy note creeps into his voice. “Yeah, yeah. Can I borrow this?”

“Borrow?”

Before Loki can blink, the Grandmaster plucks the illusion from his hand. He simply takes it...as if the spellwork of a seiðrmaster can be stolen off the fingertips! It's impossible, yet the Grandmaster does it without strain.

The illusion shrinks on the Grandmaster’s palm; in seconds, it disappears under a sleeve. “Give me an hour,” the Grandmaster says. He takes a long, deep breath, cheek to Loki's hair. “Gods,” he whispers. 

Loki shivers. Does the Grandmaster mean this as a curse, or is he voicing a preference for gods? Neither would surprise Loki. He isn’t sure anything on this planet can anymore.

The Grandmaster departs with a final smile. The door closes, leaving Loki sprawled naked in a crumpled mess of sheets. Loki raises a hand to his swollen, blue lips. He rubs, and soreness twitches under his touch. 

Maybe this insane world is one he can belong in? For now, at least.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10: Are You Here?
> 
> * Explicit *

Loki sleeps with fingers curled against his sore mouth. He does not dream, a blissful reprieve from nightmares that have plagued him of late. Loki sleeps as the Grandmaster leaves him, naked in a sprawl of sheets.

When Loki wakes, he feels reborn feeling. There are no clocks in the Grandmaster's chambers. How long did he sleep?

A box sits on the other side of the bed, lake blue and fluffy white ribbon. A folded note sits beneath the bow. The page is soft to the touch, as if plucked from the oldest of tomes. Loki loves the feel of ancient texts.

Elaborate blue script fills the page, looping vowels and footed consonants. _One hour as promised. Take your time, gorgeous. I’ll be waiting, E_

E, is it? Short for some other name Loki has had no hint of until now?

Did the Grandmaster or one of his aides drop off this gift and leave? Or did the Grandmaster stay awhile as Loki slept? Stroking Loki’s hair perhaps, or touching the swollen mess he made of Loki’s face?

The idea should be revolting, but a thrill shivers down Loki's back. Has Loki manipulated the Grandmaster so far that he would shirk his every duty to watch Loki sleep? Loki laughs at the thought. It is far too pleased a sound.

Loki stretches from the bed and draws himself a bath. The water is warm and fragrant, and he melts into it. As Loki reclines in the tub, he chips dried paint from his jaw. His mouth stings as sweet as the Grandmaster’s kisses. The scent of cornflower blossoms floods him; a breath of home.

Loki peels his lips back and lets them spring up into place. Pain hums across Loki's nerves. His breaths stutter, and he shifts on the marble bath seat. Its weight provokes a pleasant twist in his gut.

Before Sakaar, Loki went years without experiencing the intimacy of another. Loki enjoys pleasures of the flesh, of course; he even yearned for them in his youth. But he has never craved touch as he does here. The drinks, yes, they have power, and Loki cannot begin to fathom the manipulation of his own seiðr last night. But this is more than these tricks. This is something that runs far deeper.

Without knowing, has the Grandmaster wired Loki to need this intimacy? To seek it? To feel it without the slightest provocation?

Loki fingers the collar wet and heavy around his throat. Water drips down Loki’s neck as he traces to his chin. When Loki scrapes a nail across his lips, his own whimper startles him. Pleasure pools sudden and hot in his belly. “Norns, please,” he gasps.

What is the Grandmaster doing to him? Is it this damned collar? Has Loki’s seiðr been turned against him like cells attacking an infection? Or is it the Grandmaster's influence alone? Is everything him?

Loki sees the Grandmaster kneeling over him with his infuriating half-smirk. Loki feels hands flat on his chest, rubbing so intently that Loki’s pebbled nipples snag. Teeth pluck Loki’s sore lips. Loki gasps, and his mouth pops open - so easy, effortless!

Loki blows out a shaking breath and smears a palm over his mouth. He bites his own skin to muffle what is sure to be an embarrassing sound.

“Are you here?” he whispers. The Grandmaster was with Loki last night as he sprawled in the lazy embrace of his new companions. He was there, too, as Loki thanked the guard Tim. Is he here now?

Real or imagined, Loki arches under his host’s weight. “This is madness,” Loki hisses. This truth does nothing to slow his heart’s race or ease the weight of his own need between his thighs.

Loki wraps a hand around his cock. Hard, damn it. Fully erect and so tender! Loki plunges fingers past his lips without thought; he bites, and his hips jerk forward. 

_The Grandmaster will destroy me._

The thought echoes in Loki’s mind as he sucks his own fingers. His head sinks against the tub’s rim, wet hair sprawled around his head. Loki presses into his own hand, pleasure bubbling too hard and fast.

Loki releases his fingers from his mouth.“Please.” He moans weakly.

Loki spasms forward, and he sobs relief. His orgasm trembles through him, weakening his body against the tub wall. Loki sinks until water covers the collar around his neck. His cheeks blush hot, glassy eyes on the ceiling. The sound of dripping water weaves with his shaking breaths.

***


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11: Burnt Toast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the absence! To make up for it, chapters 10 and 11 are up today. Thank you so much for reading this weirdness, hope you've been enjoying it :)

No surprise, the clothing the Grandmaster provides is immaculate to the last stitch. The slacks hug Loki’s legs at just the right snugness. The tunic hangs comfortably, its threaded neck angled above the cleft of his chest. The trench vest touches the backs of his knees. Loki ties his hair half-back, offering a better audience for the collar. 

He looks impeccable in the mirror, save the swell of his over-kissed mouth. A rim of pink surrounds it, lips red as an overripe fruit. Loki could heal this malady with ease, or shield it behind a more presentable glamour. But Loki made a promise to the Grandmaster; no seiðr. Fulfilling promises is not Loki’s forte, but he will not try the creature’s patience for a matter as small as this.

Besides, given the nature of this odd place, Loki will not be the only one showing the ill-effects of intimacy. He chuckles at the ridiculousness.

Loki is unsure of what to expect when he tries the bedroom door. He is pleased to find the Grandmaster’s lovely golden twins, not his right hand Topaz, standing before him. “Hello,” they greet in tandem, nodding their high-bunned heads.

Loki puts on his most winning smile. “Good morning. Or...is it afternoon now? It’s difficult to tell in the suite.”

“Midday,” the left twin says.

“Lunch is being served in the courtyard,” the right twin says. They are magnificently identical, down to their crystal pink lip gloss.

“I believe that’s where I am to meet the Grandmaster-”

“We are to escort you to the courtroom,” the left twin says.

“The Grandmaster is waiting,” the right adds.

The courtroom; an odd name. “In that case, lead on.”

“Follow please,” they say. They turn in tandem, impressive on their sparkling heels. Every step they take is measured down to the click of their shoes on gray tile. Loki walks behind them, allowing his fascination to show. 

“I’m called Loki,” he tells them, a casual attempt at conversation.

“Kyla,” the left says.

“Kyla,” Loki acknowledges, and turns to his right. “And you are?”

“Kyla,” the right says.

Loki’s smile wanes. “I see. Twins, I gather. Is one of you the elder?”

“No,” they say together.

“Surely,” Loki frowns, “one of you must be older? By minutes, or seconds at least?”

“No,” they reply. There is no anger in the response. It simply is, a stagnant note shared by two mouths.

“Well… Thank you for taking me, in any case.”

“Breaker of Walls,” they say, with a nod over their shoulders. Their high buns bob close enough to touch.

Automations? Programmed? Loki shakes his head. The less he thinks about how things work around here, the better.

The old gear-cranked conveyor has become familiar to Loki, but its doors open to a floor Loki has not yet seen. He's become used to a labyrinth of halls leading from one grand Sakaarian spectacle to the next. Now, Loki steps onto an open floor; wide walls and a daunting ceiling oversee a floor black as space. 

They enter to a party of some sort. Pumped fists and loud, raucous laughter liven the gathering. Twin bars mark the side walls, drinks turned at an impressive rate.

Apparently believing their task completed, the Kylas click off to their next adventure. Loki lingers by the conveyor’s doors, staring out at the festive scene.

“Liesmith!” The purple-haired Kree Darla tackles Loki from the crowd. She tosses a chestnut arm around his shoulders. “You missed all the fun!” She balances her glass of blue in a manicured grip.

“I can see that,” Loki says, trying to peer over the wall of heads. “What happened?” Species tall and small make up to crowd, packed too densely for Loki to see between. Thumps of bass rumble beneath Loki’s boots. 

“Holy shit, _look at you_.” Whatever excitement transpired here, Loki's face still distracts Darla. His mouth, more specifically. She zeroes in with a sly grin. “What’s that silver tongue of yours been up to, hmm?”

Pride floods Loki on instinct. In a matter of days, has he become so poisoned by this place that being the pet of a mad dictator _thrills_ him?

Still, it's part of the act, after all. Loki offers a conspiring grin. “I ah, must confess to being a bit sore.”

“Confess, hm? ...Ooh! Did you know the Grandmaster has playpens for that sort of thing?” At Loki’s arched brow, Darla grins. “Red on your ledger? Push a button, and you’ll be at your own altar ready to make peace. Or take your punishment, if that's more your speed. Down one level. You ever want to try one out, I can show you the ropes...” Darla plucks his lip with a sharp red nail; it stings exquisitely. Loki’s eyes lose focus, memories of the Grandmaster’s mouth crushed to his pervading his thoughts.

Darla sees it all, as perceptive as she is dangerous. She teases at his ear, “They’ve got ropes in the playpens too, you know. Whips. Chains. Whatever your pretty heart desires, Liesmith.”

“What if my heart is not doing the desiring?” Darla likes this tease; her eyebrow rises and her grin quirks higher.

The smell distracts Loki from their easy flirtation. It is sudden and pungent, and he crinkles his nose. “What in the Hel is that?”

Darla laughs at his reaction. “That, silver tongue, is the fun you missed.”

Loki holds the back of a hand to his nose. “This is fun? It smells like death.”

“Most executions do,” Darla chirps.

If Loki looks surprised, it must not register enough for Darla to feel the need to explain. She leans up on her toes to kiss Loki’s sore mouth. “Hey, want to finish this?” Darla thrusts her half-drained blue at him. “I’ve gotta work, but - oh my god, you taste like sex!” Her dark eyes glitter. “You're becoming quite the slut, Liesmith.”

Loki must be losing his touch; he can’t find it in himself to act offended. Isn't this how things work on Sakaar, after all? The more devious one’s sex, the more celebrated? “Takes one to know one, as the saying goes.” He winks at her impressed reaction and begrudgingly accepts her glass.

Loki enjoys the soreness left by her quick kiss, but the odor tempers his pleasure. It smells horrible, like a post-battle pyre and the smoke of burning flesh. Loki is intrigued.

He leaves the glass of blue with a passing server. Hands free, it is easier for him to worm his way through the crowd. Whatever action transpired must have been minutes earlier. The group’s fervor has died somewhat, but celebration still lingers over the room. He hears laughter of all types - loud belly guffaws and the clicks of vocal chordless species.

It must have been an entertaining spectacle. A criminal of some sort? The Grandmaster mentioned a gambling cousin, did he catch the crook at last?

As Loki works closer, he spies the Grandmaster’s gold threads between pressed bodies. He has a smile on his face, teeth bared in an awfully pleased fashion.

The Grandmaster is holding the odd bulbed staff, Loki realizes. He must have used it as Topaz threatened to do to Loki his first night on Sakaar. Loki feels a pang of disappointment. He’s been curious about the object ever since he first saw it.

Stars, the smell is dreadful.

Loki is close enough to see Topaz standing beside the Grandmaster. It is the first time Loki can recall a grin on her face. The expression makes him uneasy.

“Breaker of Walls.” A hand on Loki's arm stalls his approach. Zopal. The bartender’s expression is nonplussed as ever, white eyes fixed on Loki’s face. But there is something about his grip that sets Loki on edge.

“Yes, friend?” Loki greets. He frowns at the glass Zopal offers him.

The drink is a delicate pink shade. Thin bubble-strands like jewels glitter from the base of the glass to its peak. The blush, Loki assumes. He smiles at the beverage, then its maker. “Is it so imperative that every resident of Sakaar have a glass in hand at all times?”

“Down it in one go,” Zopal tells him.

The order's firmness gives Loki pause. “Is...this the Grandmaster’s command?” he asks.

Zopal’s expression does not change. “One go,” he repeats. It is not the Grandmaster’s command then.

Loki does not trust anyone in this place. Not his odd new friends, surely not Topaz or the Kylas, not the Grandmaster himself. But Loki trusts this being, he realizes. He trusts Zopal's all-knowing eyes and his assured face. Unbidden, Loki thinks of Heimdall.

He cringes away the thought and snatches the glass from the bartender. It takes two swallows to drain the blush completely. The drink is sweet and light on Loki's tongue.

Loki feels no different in the aftermath. He smiles cautiously as he hands the glass back. “You said this was the least potent,” he observes. “Dare I ask what it does?”

“He’s watching,” Zopal says. “Remember that.” He threads back through the crowd before Loki can say another word.

A warning, surely. But a warning of what?

When Loki turns back in the Grandmaster’s direction, he startles at a featureless white face in front of him. Loki blows out his anxious breath with a laugh of recognition. “Tomas, hello. I heard I missed quite the show.”

Loki’s hands are taken gently. His skin appears sun-kissed between Tomas’ ice-white fingers. _You knew him_ , Tomas whispers to Loki’s mind. _I’m sorry._

“I don’t understand, what-”

“Is that my Breaker of Walls?” Tomas releases Loki’s hands and continues into the crowd. The audience parts, and an open walkway appears to where the Grandmaster waits.

The Grandmaster stands beside an odd puddle on the floor. It is a gummy mess of life bled down to the very atoms. A petri dish of dyes and ruptured skin. Loki has difficulty closing their distance, the smell is so intense. He takes short breaths through his mouth to keep from gagging.

Loki has seen much death, a fair amount by his own hand. Death itself does not jar him, it’s this smell! In all his years, he cannot remember an odor so viscerally repugnant.

“I heard I missed quite the show.” Loki greets the Grandmaster with a smile. “This is it?” He gazes at the putrid puddle. A shred of yellow metal is melting into the stew. A vibrant yellow, like that of a guard’s uniform. The guard’s uniform.

Loki stares at the puddle, fingers pressed to his nose.

“Oh, this?” The Grandmaster eyes Loki closely. “An old thread that needed cutting. You know how it is, don’t you, sweetheart? What am I saying - of course you do!” A smile plays on his lips; eager, curious.

Loki cannot take his eyes off the spreading film on the floor. A boil pops at the top. “It smells awful,” he whispers.

“Yeah? What’s it smell like?”

“Burnt toast.”

His response earns a snicker from the Grandmaster and a surprising laugh from Topaz. “Burnt toast,” she echoes merrily.

“Hey, hey.” Loki’s eyes are jarred upward by hands on his face. The Grandmaster’s smile slips into something less pleased. “You ok there, gorgeous?”

Loki won’t be able to hide from this. The sick churn of his stomach, the tightness of his throat, the burn of enraged tears in his eyes... He won’t be able to hide, and the Grandmaster has his stick-weapon prepared for further use.

Loki’s smile is immediate and easy.

“Yes, of course,” he hears himself say. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Fury dries from his eyes, and the burn of bile in his throat extinguishes. He feels...pleasant all of a sudden. His thoughts drift like clouds on a lazy midday sky.

The Grandmaster gazes at him, brow raised. “I - look, I know you liked him, sweetheart,” he says, “I do. But he’s been here a long time, he knows the rules, and-”

“We have a lunch date,” Loki interrupts kindly, “and then you said you would play me a song or two. Is that still the plan, Grandmaster?”

“It is,” the Grandmaster says, a blink the only sign of his surprise. His thumbs rise to Loki’s lips. “I see you cleaned yourself up. Your mouth. Wow it's, you're…” The Grandmaster pauses, as if seeing him for the first time. “Wow.”

“Thank you for the new attire. It fits marvelously-”

“Topaz,” the Grandmaster interrupts, voice soft, distracted. One hand is off Loki’s face, grasping for the staff tucked against his shoulder. “Have this mess cleaned. Tell them to use extra freshener for Loki, his poor nose is just, it’s so sensitive!”

Topaz smirks when she takes the Grandmaster’s staff. Loki sees the slant of her eyes, but he cannot bring himself to care about her glee at his expense. Everything is soft as a lamb’s wool in Loki's mind. He cannot care about his own broken promises. He cannot care about the rotting smear of extinguished life on the floor. He cannot care that the creature holding him has the power to destroy him just as easily.

“Can you wait for lunch?” the Grandmaster asks. He sounds uncharacteristically out of sorts. “I - we need to go somewhere. Not here. Away from here.” His hands tremble on Loki's face.

Loki fits himself close to the Grandmaster by way of answer. His lips graze the painted line on the Grandmaster’s chin. The creature shivers as if he, _he_ , has been provoked. “Yeah,” the Grandmaster stutters, "yeah, let’s go, this way.”

Docile as the blush has rendered Loki, he still stumbles when the Grandmaster grabs his wrist. A few sets of eyes turn to watch them leave. Loki glances at soldiers in blue weaving through the crowd in the opposite direction. Two of the beings hold mops.

Loki wonders where he is being led when the Grandmaster urges him onto the conveyor. To another room in this dreadful place, no doubt, more obnoxiously decorated than the last. He feels the Grandmaster’s gaze, and only then realizes he’s been laughing.

The conveyor opens in an odd little corridor. It is a vast contrast to the courtroom, a small hub in dark blues and grays. A closed metal door greets them, high arched with a grated disc in the center. The Grandmaster taps digits into an orb keypad beside the door. Loki watches with a mild smile. “A secret room, Grandmaster?” Oddly, the Grandmaster has no response for him.

The code is 127**369*5.

Inside, an odd temple awaits, an open pentagon centered around an awful purple statue. It is of the Grandmaster, of course, clothes half-torn and weapon raised in victory. At his feet kneels a maiden, sweet of face and low of blouse. 

Loki thinks of what Darla mentioned of the playpens. The Grandmaster has had his own altar designed for permanent use, it seems. How ridiculous; Loki swallows another laugh. “It’s a lovely statue,” he says. “I-”

“ _Stars_ , shut your mouth.” Loki’s voice snaps to silence when he is forced against a wall. The Grandmaster's kiss smothers his startled breath.

Loki’s already ravaged mouth twinges, and he groans. The Grandmaster likes the sound; Loki feels it in the shudder that rolls through the creature’s body. His fingers clench in Loki’s half-tied hair. Wrecking it, no doubt; ruining Loki seems to be his favorite activity. Loki gasps at teeth sinking into his bottom lip. His air is thin, and his mouth tastes like copper.

A hand forces Loki’s head to tip. He does so without hesitation, hissing under the Grandmaster’s weight. His mouth is screaming, soreness tight his throat.

The Grandmaster killed the guard with a stick! Melted him like candle wax, reduced him to nothing but a shred of boiling metal.

The horror of it does not register; Loki is soothed by drink and piqued by the Grandmaster’s mouth. Loki gives up on saving his hair, pulling it from its half-tie so the Grandmaster can grip it in a fist. He yanks, and Loki groans, the sound swallowed by a greedy mouth. 

“You knew,” the Grandmaster accuses roughly. “You knew what you’d look like, you knew when you asked me.”

Lips and tongue quiet Loki’s protests. It’s lovely, and it hurts. Loki is dizzy from kissing him, dizzy from drink, dizzy with the anger of a senseless death.

The Grandmaster kisses Loki until Loki fears his knees may give way. Goosebumps blister on his skin. His mouth pricks numbly from the Grandmaster’s unwavering attention. The Grandmaster does not stop.

Loki needs to breathe, or does he? His desperate gasps taste sweet against the ruler's tongue. Loki aches, and he needs. The Grandmaster's body smothers Loki, and he revels in being trapped.

Loki’s head spins, but he can't bring himself to stop. How long have they been here? Five minutes, the creature said, or ten. But no, it's been longer - it has to be longer, doesn't it?

When Loki sinks down the wall, the Grandmaster kneels with him. Loki is folded in the Grandmaster’s arms, and he wraps the Grandmaster in his. Loki cannot breathe without him. His jaw aches and he cannot feel his mouth.

“You came into my court like this.” The Grandmaster’s voice is hoarse; Loki shivers. “You waltzed right in looking like - looking like this!”

Loki’s breaths rasp between red-rimmed lips. “I was hardly the only one-”

“Yeah, but you're mine!” How petulantly self-assured. The Grandmaster toys with Loki’s hair. “You’re impossible, Loki. Stars, you just - sometimes I think you want me to kill you. Sometimes I think you’re only here to upset me.”

Loki should fear the words, but he is not capable of fear at the moment. The drink or his own bravado? “Have I upset you, Grandmaster?” he asks.

“Oh yeah.” The Grandmaster caresses his face. “You’ve made me upset, _very_ upset,” he says. “So upset, I should-” Loki interrupts with a kiss; light as it is, he still shivers from the ache. It’s worth the huff of laughter the gesture receives from the Grandmaster.

Loki should be afraid; he should be running.

“Oh, I hate you,” the Grandmaster purrs. “I really do.” The Grandmaster drapes a hand over Loki’s mouth.

Loki believes it to be a teasing gesture at first. Then, he feels power shiver from the Grandmaster’s fingers. It’s like electricity, but...softer. Not at all like Thor’s power, all brute strength and burn. This is the lick of a candle flame. The weave of a seamstress’ needle. The swelling drains from Loki’s skin, and his mouth resumes its natural pale and pink. No sign of the Grandmaster’s fixation remains.

“This right here? Only for you and me, got it?” The Grandmaster plucks Loki’s bottom lip with a thumb.

Loki gasps at the pain that ignites from his touch. It’s still here; the soreness, the swelling. It remains, only masked. Loki could have set his own glamour, but now he wears the Grandmaster’s sorcery. His host's power is ancient, playfully subtle yet vast as the universe itself. Terrifying. Beautiful.

“I understand,” Loki tells him. 

This cruel thing killed Tim. Melted him without any chance to defend himself.

And yet, Loki shares a secret with the creature now. He is the Grandmaster’s prize to steal away as his heart desires. Isn’t this the security Loki has coveted since he fell to Sakaar? ...Isn’t this the importance he has craved all his life?

Is this the drink? Or is this what Loki feels?

“So, ah,” the Grandmaster combs gentle fingers through Loki’s hair, “you hungry, gorgeous?”

“Famished,” Loki says, smiling. 

On Sakaar, perhaps it does not matter what is true and what isn’t.

***


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12: The Drop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for the lovely feedback, and I'm sorry for the slowness of this chapter. Enjoy! :)

It begins with a twitch in Loki’s fingers. Loki does not notice until the pressure between his shoulders becomes painful. The smile falls from his lips, and his heart throbs in his chest. A second ago, he felt completely at peace. Now, Loki's stomach flips with sudden worry and anger long-thought forgotten.

But it hasn’t been long, has it, since the guard met his demise? A few hours, at most?

Loki braces a hand on the Grandmaster’s synthesizer for balance. The Grandmaster is too involved in his playing to notice, small mercies. The music is the opposite of Loki’s tastes, but at least the Grandmaster carries a decent tune. His instrument is gold, of course, and flashes rainbow colors across the dance floor. The room’s attendees clutter the space, laughing and moving to the Grandmaster’s whims. Along the back wall, patrons play large, intricate light games and sway in time with the music.

They are all so happy. It does not matter that a living creature was burned alive today. This is bliss on Sakaar - mindless, pure adoration. It is becoming harder for Loki to hide the tremor in his hands.

When the Grandmaster left their shared chambers this morning, had he already made up his mind? Or was his decision more fickle, made when he crossed the guard’s path? 

“You like it?” The Grandmaster shoots Loki an expectant grin. “I call that little number _Jazzmaster_. It’s got flare to it, a bit of a - a bit of a,” he snaps fingers, “you know what I mean. Do they have jazz where you’re from?”

Loki frowns out of his daze. “What?”

“Loki?” The Grandmaster’s smile evaporates. When he lifts a hand, a replacement player steps up behind him. A green-faced fellow, bug black eyes and severe forehead wrinkles. R’djelian, by the looks of it. A few curious looks turn from the crowd, but most are more than happy to resume dancing without care.

Loki picks at his hand. “You didn’t have to stop,” he offers, forcing a smile. Loki’s body is betraying him. He is panicking, and his collar is too tight. He needs to get out of here, he needs to calm the racing thoughts in his head. Loki scratches at the metal around his neck.

The Grandmaster’s confusion becomes a deeper frown. “What in the universe's gotten into you?” He traces thumbs over Loki’s collar in slow, coaxing lines. What a nonchalant claim! Loki’s anger boils, and some nervous part of him twitches. Deeper still, he yearns for the touch.

“Please forgive me, Grandmaster, I,” Loki swallows. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re not...you’re not sure? What does that mean?”

“I,” Loki flounders; why are his thoughts in such a fog? “My head. It came on without warning. I didn't mean to interrupt. You have a real talent for-”

“What? Your head?” The Grandmaster covers Loki’s forehead without warning. His eyes narrow. “Are you sick? Why are you sick? Hot? Cold? You’re not about to melt, are you?”

It is not the first time the Grandmaster has checked Loki for fever, but this time Loki feels something. There is always power in the Grandmaster’s touch, a shiver of energy lurking under his skin. But this is different. This is - Loki _feels_ him. His essence, his...whatever ancient power the Grandmaster possesses. He is touching Loki’s forehead. Touching...past Loki’s forehead. Penetrating, digging into-

Loki buries his face in the Grandmaster's shoulder. The Grandmaster flinches back in surprise. “What-” the Grandmaster breathes, “What are you doing?” His hand stutters in the air, seemingly unsure of where to fall. It lands, tentative, between Loki’s shoulders.

“Forgive me,” Loki says. He needs to get out of here.

“You said that already,” the Grandmaster points out, frowning. “What am I forgiving you for this time? For this? For doing this in front of everyone? Again?”

Loki steels himself for the lie. Twisting words is normally no issue for Loki. He weaves mistruths almost as effortlessly as he breathes. But now, for some reason, the effort strains Loki to his limits. Is this another part of the blush's aftermath? And it is supposed to be the _mildest_ of the Grandmaster's vile concoctions?

“This affliction, I - it must be from before.” Loki’s own voice sounds shrill and anxious to his ears. “That smell from the courtroom has lingered. Or it happened here. A perfume, a - something. As you said, Grandmaster, my nose is rather sensitive, I-”

“You need sleep,” the Grandmaster says solemnly. Maybe Loki does. The mere suggestion makes his eyelids droop and his limbs heavy. Loki’s thoughts cloud over, hazy and warm. Perhaps he does need sleep, he is so very tired, he-

Loki blinks rapidly, shaking his head. “A walk,” he proposes, laughing weakly. “A loop around the floor. If there is no improvement, I’ll retire...with your permission, of course.”

“Hm.” The Grandmaster taps his chin. “Movement, yeah. That could be good. I’ll ask Kyla to escort you.”

Loki wonders if he means one or both Kylas. No matter. Loki sets gentle hands on the Grandmaster’s waist. The Grandmaster looks down, a curious arch to his brow. “If it’s alright,” Loki ventures, “I thought I might walk by myself?”

“By yourself? _Alone_ , you mean?” The Grandmaster sounds genuinely perplexed. “Oh, I don't know. You shouldn't be alone if you're sick, sweetheart.” His blue-outlined eyes are bewilderingly sincere. Loki’s nerves increase.

Abruptly, the Grandmaster takes Loki’s hand and leads him out of the room. Loki is not expecting it. He trips on his own feet, and sensation sloshes uncomfortably in his skull. What did this drink do to him?

Beyond the pentagon doorway, the Grandmaster maneuvers Loki against a wall. “Stars, you’re so fragile, sweetheart. Like a, like a doll!” The Grandmaster hums his appreciation. His weight blankets Loki, solid and warm. "I should stay with you," he says. "You’ll be safer that way, won’t you? I would never, ever let anything bad happen to you.”

It takes effort, apprehensive as Loki is, not to scoff. Days ago, the Grandmaster was more than happy to leave Loki unprotected and swimming in drink. It was the guard Tim who spared Loki from a worse fate. The guard, who is now nothing more than a stain on Sakaar’s mops.

Fury and fear aside, Loki still leans closer. There is something about the Grandmaster's touch. Something about _him_.

“Your subjects delight in your music,” Loki insists. “They miss you, and they want you here. I won’t stray far. If I'm unwell when I return, you can take me where you’d like.”

“Where I’d like…” The Grandmaster brushes fingers through Loki’s hair. “That, ah, that opens up realms of possibilities, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does.” Loki turns towards his blue-tipped fingers and sighs. “How bored you must grow of me.” So close; Loki is so close to being free of him for a little while. 

The Grandmaster’s smile thins. “What?”

“I waste such time,” Loki says, projecting as much regret as he can muster. “I break your walls, I sleep, I do not eat as much as you would like, and now this odd spell. What a burden I must be to-” Loki silences at a single, strict finger against his lips. He flinches, mouth still sore under the Grandmaster's glamour.

“You’re mine, Loki,” the Grandmaster says quietly. “I’ll decide what I think of you.” Loki cannot hide his shiver. “Don’t stray too far,” the Grandmaster adds, “and be back before dinner. Mildred is making her roast. It's spectacular, just to _die_ for!” He drags a finger from Loki’s lips to his throat. Horror and desire knot in Loki's stomach.

“Yes, of course,” Loki whispers. “Thank you for understanding.”

The Grandmaster grins at his response. “You - _golly_ , the way you talk. It gets me, it does. You...hm…” His expression softens, and he thumbs Loki’s temple. “Come back to me soon, sweetheart. I miss you when you’re gone. You poor thing, not feeling well.” He kisses Loki softly. “You poor, poor thing.”

Loki sighs, back flat to the wall. Their fingers lace together, the Grandmaster’s blue thumbnail tracing Loki’s wrist. A part of Loki wants to stay. The Grandmaster welcomes him, and Loki wants to be welcomed. He wants to be touched, kissed, and fucked - _Norns_ , he still wants to be fucked.

A larger part of Loki wants to run. 

The Grandmaster’s hand slips from his. With a parting smile, Loki is left alone. Shaking, unsteady, Loki stumbles away.

***


End file.
